


Reconcile

by thecryoftheseagulls



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Threesomes, Everyone is having way more emotional sex than i anticipated, F/M, Hawke finds romance difficult, Hawke has a hard time choosing between Fenris and Anders, Hawke is Bad at Feelings and Better at Sex, Justice has a crush, Keran makes an A+ friend with benefits, Lyrium is very distracting to a spirit what can i say, M/M, Multi, Pining, Purple Hawke also has aggressive moments, Saying 'I love you' is really not as difficult as Hawke would like to think, Slow Burn, because feelings, eventual fenders, why not both?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 01:59:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2564072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecryoftheseagulls/pseuds/thecryoftheseagulls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jicosa Hawke sleeps with Fenris, finds him running out on her, and turns to the pretty mage who is always there for her. Her feelings for Fenris don't just go away, however, and meanwhile Fenris and Anders begin to discover that mutual dislike doesn't necessarily exclude attraction. </p><p>Eventual Hawke/Anders/Fenris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“So, that’s it…you’re ending it?” 

Fenris is already dressed before Jicosa Hawke’s fireplace. She bends to reach for the shirt she’s abandoned on the floor, feeling naked under the weight of his disapproving gaze. She struggles to read him – his tone belies his words. _It was more than agreeable_ , he’d said only moments ago. But still, he’s leaving, and she can tell by the way he squares his shoulders and looks over her head instead of in her eyes that he isn’t coming back. 

“I’m sorry. I never should have let it get this far,” he says in a low tone, and it’s genuine regret she hears in his voice. She doesn’t believe him. 

Jicosa pulls the shirt over her head and slips from the bed. 

“Fenris…” she says, reaching for him. He’s found something of his past by being with her, and she can’t understand why that pains him, why he would run from it, from her, even if it is overwhelming. She can _help_ him, she knows she can. The desolation in his green eyes makes her chest hurt.

“I’m sorry, Hawke,” he says again. “I have to go.”

**

Hawke straps her great-axe to her back and makes her way from the dark streets of Hightown to the Hanged Man. 

“Whiskey,” she tells the bartender tersely. 

Across the room, Varric is regaling a handful of drunk patrons, and she damned well hopes that for once it’s not about her and her supposed exploits. Jicosa downs the whiskey and waves for more as the dwarf notices her arrival.

A breath later, she’s flanked on either side by Varric and Isabela.

“Careful, Hawke, it’s a bit late to be going at it like that,” Varric says at her elbow.

“Thank you, Father, your concern is noted.” Jicosa snorts.

“See, and I expected Broody to be down here drinking his pain away tonight after de-hearting that woman outside the city. Instead we find you. I’m thinking there’s a story there. What do you think, Rivaini?”

“Oh aye,” Isabela says. 

“Blighted elf,” Jicosa mutters into her glass. “Won’t let anybody help him.”

Varric and Isabela exchange raised brows around her. 

“So it is about Broody! Do tell,” Varric says, a little too delightedly. Jicosa glowers at him.

“We made sweet sweet love by the light of the moon and then he ran off into the night hurling explanations for why it was a mistake over his shoulder,” Hawke grunts. 

“Reaaaally?” Varric smirks.

Isabela presses in beside Jicosa and leans her elbow on the bar to prop her chin in her hand. She arches a brow.

“No, not really,” Hawke says. “I’d actually describe it more like fucking. Not much sweetness at all, actually.” She downs another shot of whiskey. 

Varric whistles. “I think I’m actually going to need a pint to process this,” he tells Corff. Isabela guides Hawke over to a table with a hand on Hawke’s elbow as Varric collects a mug for each of them.

“Well, Hawke,” he says when he sits down. “I know you’ve had your eye on the elf for a while, but it’d be a lie to say I’m completely surprised by this turn of events. Broody is a prickly sort.”

“As much as I love discussing my love life…” Jicosa says. “No, that’s a lie. I don’t love it. Let’s talk about something else. What story were you telling those poor saps, Varric? It better not have been about today.”

“You wound me, Hawke,” Varric says with a grin.

**

Hawke makes sure Keran gets a note the next day. 

_Free tonight? Come over. JH_

As usual, the templar doesn’t take any more convincing than that. He knocks on her door late, long after her mother has gone to bed. Jicosa answers the door herself to reveal the blonde man out of uniform, in simple brown trousers and white shirt under a dark cloak. He pushes the hood down when the door is closed behind him and smiles boyishly at her.

“Hello, Hawke.”

Jicosa stands on her toes and crushes her lips to his without ceremony, her fingers working loose the clasp on his cloak. She slides it off his shoulders and throws it over her arm before she pulls back, patting his cheek with her free hand.

“Evening,” she says casually.

Keran flushes crimson and grins down at her. She hustles him off to her bedroom before Bodahn comes to investigate. 

With the door latched behind them, Hawke drops Keran’s cloak over the back of a chair. She drags him to her, her hands on her his hips. The kiss she gives him is all teeth and tongue and need; there is no tenderness in her touch. The templar groans and sweeps his fingers through her strawberry blonde hair, upsetting the tie there until her hair falls, partially loose, about her chin. She drops his belt to the floor, strips off his shirt, turns her fingers to the ties of his trousers, her hands brusque, efficient. 

“Hawke…you know I would never deny you anything…but this, you don’t have to…” Keran holds his hands out away from her body, awkwardly, the look in his bright blue eyes verging close, too close, to concern at her haste.

Jicosa brushes her hair behind her ear and sighs, stilling to look up at him. “I asked you here to fuck me, Keran. I trust that’s not something you’ve changed your mind about?”

He shakes his head, wordless, and she can see the heat in his gaze and the clench of his jaw. He looks at her the same way he has looked at her all the years since she rescued him from power-mad blood mages, convinced Cullen that he was not possessed, saved his job and his family from destitution. He looks at her like she’s his sun, with an adoration bordering on hero worship. _My savior_ , he calls her, and only pretends that it’s a joke.

Hawke knows, oh she knows, that the man would do anything she asked of him.

“Good,” she growls, pushing him back to the bed. 

Hawke does not think of Fenris. She does not think of a much smaller body lined with lyrium, the soft blue glow of Fenris’ markings in the near-dark, does not think of his desperation, his need, the way he clung to her and came for her and whispered her name. It was one night, a night Hawke had been hoping for since the broody elf had shown up and stuck his hand through a man’s chest and she had felt the heat, the want of him, down to her toes. But still, one night. No promises, no vows, only two bodies pressed together, and Hawke was fine with that, fine with a casual fling between two consenting parties. Void, it’s what she’s best at. But with Fenris, she had wanted…something more. She had wanted it to be a beginning. Damn him and his abominable pride. 

No, she does not think of the elf. Tonight, it’s a simple coupling with a familiar body, and the fire is well stoked, the room brightly lit. Keran is eager and fumbling and so very opposite of all that Fenris is. He has no dark past to haunt him. His concerns are simple, duty to the templars, to his family, to his perceived debt to Hawke, if he can even call it a debt after the number of times she’s fucked him. Oh, she knows the memory of what those blood mages nearly did to him still troubles him, and she knows that his trips to the Blooming Rose have stopped entirely, that he cannot bear the thought of returning. It is one reason she does not regret the informal nature of their relationship; he needs the release as much as she does. He would give himself to her completely in a heartbeat, but Hawke wants little from him except his body. She may not be a mage herself, but she has spent a lifetime running and guarding her family from his kind. To be with one of the templars – to consider _marriage_ to one of them – perish the thought. She can practically feel her father rolling over in his grave at the notion. 

The templar runs his hands over her body with a practiced ease, traces the spot under her ear that makes her breathless with his tongue, fucks her into the oversized bed because she urges him on with her nails dragging red marks down his pale skin. And when she shudders around him and drags him with her, he slips to the side and pulls her into strong arms which Hawke has learned from experience are overly fond of cuddling. She exhales, lets herself curl against his broad chest, and runs a hand down muscle taut from years of knight training appreciatively. He presses a kiss to her forehead. 

“How’s my sister?” she murmurs.

“You know I would tell you if there was anything to be concerned about, Hawke,” he says, his tone reproachful, almost hurt. “I keep an eye out for her and any news of her, for you.”

“Yes, and you’re awfully handy to have around. My own personal informant,” Jicosa says cheekily, patting his chest. He shifts under her and she knows she’s made him uncomfortable, knows his superiors would not take kindly to his fucking the infamous Hawke, the Fereldan troublemaker with too many apostates for friends. She tilts her head to press her lips to his jaw. “It’s sweet of you,” she adds, more seriously. “Thank you.”

He huffs, but snugs the arm around her waist more tightly. “She’s doing well,” he finally says. “I hear nothing but good things about her. The Circle seems to suit her. You know she’s training apprentices now.”

“Yeah,” Hawke traces the line of impossibly fine white-blonde hair in the center of his chest. “That’s what she said in her last letter.” She laughs, a brittle sound. “My baby sister, locked up after years of the whole family running around to keep her free, and she _likes_ it. The irony.”

Keran frowns, just barely – he doesn’t like to hear her refer to the Gallows as what it is, a _cage_. Hawke pushes herself to an elbow and kisses him breathless before he can protest, an apology of sorts. But not a retraction. She rolls away.

“You should go.”

The templar doesn’t protest, but he does touch her arm, tentatively. “When can I see you again?” 

Hawke tries, desperately, to ignore the roiling guilt in her gut at the look on his face, the one he gets when he’s leaving or when he doesn’t think she’s paying too much attention. _He’s not in love with me_ , she tells herself. _Don’t be ridiculous, Hawke. It’s just infatuation._

“Soon,” she says, covering his hands with hers. “After all, where would I be without my favorite templar? Not much else going on during my nights, lately.” She smiles, the Hawke grin, bluster and sass and brittle, brittle lies.


	2. Chapter 2

Hawke slips down to visit Anders in his clinic the following day, taking the path through the cellars as usual, for the ease of it. The doors are open when she arrives, lantern lit, and the healer is bent over a patient with a head wound, his back to the door. She loiters, leaning against the wall without announcing her presence, until he’s finished. 

“There now. You’re going to be just fine,” Anders tells the young woman before him as he straightens. “I want you to go home and rest for the rest of the day, and come back if you start experiencing any dizziness or nausea, anything out of the ordinary, understand?”

“Thank you, messere,” she says quietly, wide eyes looking up at the healer with something akin to awe. She and a slightly older woman Jicosa takes to be her mother head for the door, and Anders turns to watch them out.

“Oh. Hawke,” he says in surprise when he notices her. “Sorry, didn’t hear you come in. Been there long?”

“No, not long.” She pushes off the wall and unfolds her arms. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”

Anders goes to clean his hands in a nearby washbasin. “You’re never an interruption, Hawke,” he says over his shoulder, his smile warm.

Jicosa chuckles. “You say that now. Wait till I come back clamoring for your attention one day when you’re swamped with patients. You won’t thank me then, I’m thinking.”

“A woman as lovely as yourself?” He raises a brow as he dries his hands. “Please.”

She smirks at him. “Tease.”

“I’ve been called much worse.” The affection in his eyes gives way to a more even expression, not quite guarded. “How’s Fenris? Thought he might be having a difficult time after Hadriana.”

The elf’s name, spoken casually, sounds over-loud in Jicosa’s ears. She puts a hand on her hip. “You know, you _could_ ask him yourself.” She gives Anders a level stare.

“Right. Because the elf would so appreciate the inquiry.” Anders’ lips thin. “Fairly certain he’d rather remove some of my vital organs than talk to me about anything. I don’t know why I bother.”

“You two spend enough time in close quarters tagging along with me. Think you could have a decent conversation when I’m not around.” Jicosa’s tone is sharp. 

“That’s not the same. I put up with that infuriating, mage-hating elf’s company for the sake of ensuring you don’t bleed out from bandits before you get back to my clinic. You know I’d do anything for you. Fenris would too.” Anders folds his arms across his chest.

A muscle in Jicosa’s jaw twitches. “Anders, handsome, that’s where you’re dead wrong.”

She quirks up one side of her mouth before he can pick up on the tension in that statement and adds jestingly, “Neither of you would do _anything_ I asked. You wouldn’t…kiss each other, if I asked, for instance.”

She’s not sure where _that_ joke comes from, but it is accompanied by a vivid mental picture of Fenris’ clawed gauntlets tangled in Anders’ pretty hair, the mage’s sharp nose dug into Fenris’ cheekbones, the slick glide of their tongues. The image sends a rush of heat through her, and she mentally thanks the Maker that she’s not the sort to blush easily. She pushes the thought away with a shiver and refocuses on Anders. 

The mage is eying her with concern. “You seem troubled, Hawke. Is everything all right?”

Blast him and his blighted healer’s gaze. It is positively unfair how good he is at seeing right through her ill-timed jokes. She is _not_ telling him about Fenris. She’s not. He doesn’t need the burden of her ridiculous problems. She is not-

“Just a little pissy at the brooding elf right now,” she mutters despite her best intentions, dropping the act. 

Anders steps closer to her, and the way his brows draw together, the way he reaches for her arm – all of it is suddenly fierce, protective. “What did he do now?” 

Jicosa sighs. “He came by that night, apologized for taking off, for worrying me. He was upset. We…I kissed him. We slept together.”

Anders doesn’t let go of her arm. He’s very close, taller frame bent just slightly to take his head closer to hers so that his breath ghosts over the top of her hair. He waits, watching her intently and frowning. 

“And then he…I don’t know, walked out on me. Said it was a mistake. Sort of…ran off. Ugh. I don’t know what his problem is. He said he had started to remember something, something of his life before. From being with me. And then it was gone again. So he just took off.”

Anders glowers. “He came to your estate, slept with you, then had the audacity to say it was all a mistake and leave? Maker, I knew he was an ass, but the way he looks at you, I thought…” He growls. “The bastard.”

Jicosa shrugs. 

Anders wraps his arms around her and holds her, pressing his lips to her hair. “I’m sorry sweetheart. You deserve better.”

“It’s nothing. I mean, it was just one night, yeah? So I’m…fine, really. Not the only man in Kirkwall I can hit up to keep me warm at night.” Her smile is back, playing around the edges of her mouth.

Anders coughs slightly, stepping back and blinking at her. 

“Not you, Anders!” Jicosa rolls her eyes and smacks him in the arm. “Andraste’s lacy underthings, not everything’s about you! Although…” she waggles her eyebrows at him. “Isabela has all those lovely things to say about those mage fingers of yours. I mean, if you _wanted_ …”

At her sly grin, Anders huffs. “Maker’s breath, Hawke, and you say _I’m_ the tease? Don’t tempt me with such things.” 

“Suit yourself,” she snickers. “The loss, is undoubtedly, yours. Maybe mine. A little. Ah well. Even I can’t have everything I want.”

“Did you come down here for a reason, Hawke?”

“Just wanted to see how you were getting on. You coming to the Hanged Man tonight?”

He sighs. “Yes, all right.”

**

It’s a rowdy crowd meeting for their weekly night of Wicked Grace in Varric’s suite. Hawke is the last to arrive, except Fenris, which hardly surprises her. She doesn’t really expect to see him tonight. She props her axe up against the wall and slides in between Anders and Aveline, across from Merrill and Isabela. 

“So there she is, drowning her sorrows in whiskey and telling us the story in a broken whisper…er. Hello, Hawke.” Varric’s gestures at the head of the table come to an abrupt halt as Jicosa sits down and everyone turns to look at her expectantly. 

Jicosa groans, banging her head onto the stone table several times in quick succession. “Fuck me sideways and call me an elf. Varric, if you’re going to spill all my secrets, at least don’t mischaracterize me as some weepy woman. It’s damned insulting. And no one here is going to believe it anyways.”

“Yes, I’m having a hard time picturing Hawke ‘brokenly whispering’ anything, Varric,” Aveline says dryly. 

“Please,” Varric puts a hand to his chest in exaggerated fashion. “You gave me so little to work with the other night, Hawke, I had to improvise.”

“If that’s a plea for more information, you’re going to be sorely disappointed, dwarf.” Jicosa levels a mock-glare at him and Varric affects a wounded expression. Across the table, Isabela gives a long sigh of disappointment.

The door to Varric’s suite opens just enough to let the chatter from the main room into the sudden silence, which means every eye in the room is suddenly fixed on the approach of one scowling Fenris.

Hawke stiffens, feels Anders at her side do the same. Isabela jumps up and runs over to him. 

“Fenris! Just the elf we were hoping to see. If Hawke won’t give us any juicy details of your recent dalliance, surely you will, hm?” She puts a hand on his arm and proceeds to drag him to the table.

“I. Ah. My…dalliance?” Large green eyes seem confused for a moment, and then Fenris digs in his heels and flicks his gaze to Hawke accusingly. “You _told_ them?” His low growl comes out less angry and more hurt than she was expecting.

Jicosa flinches and feels Anders hand settle over her elbow. She considers a shrug but opts instead to give the elf a small nod.

Fenris grits his teeth as Isabela tries, again, to drag him over to the table. 

“Right, yes, of course she told us. We would’ve found out eventually; you know how good Varric and I are at sniffing out yummy secrets.” Varric shrugs modestly at the end of the table and Isabela points to a bench. “So. Sit. Spill. We _need_ details!”

Hawke recognizes the panicky look in Fenris’ over-expressive eyes, the way he shifts his weight from one foot to the other like he’s just on the cusp of fleeing into the night. She goes to stand, sees Fenris take a step backwards, and drops back into her seat with a sigh. Isabela is still draped over his arm.

“Izzy. Drop it,” Jicosa barks, folding her arms over her chest. When the pirate turns a pouting expression on her, Jicosa reaches for her smile, says nonchalantly, “You’re making the man uncomfortable, see?”

The jest softens the harshness of the command, and Isabela sighs again, loudly, and flounces back to her seat. 

“Fine. Spoilsport,” she mutters.

Fenris relaxes just slightly, stands there awkwardly for a moment before he also moves over and sits down. Jicosa tries to send him an apologetic smile, but he keeps his gaze pointedly not on her. Jicosa sighs, almost inaudibly, and feels Anders’ hand on her elbow tighten in response. 

“You going to deal us in, Varric, or what?” Hawke arches a brow. 

**

A few hours later, and Hawke knows she’s drunk. Well, mostly drunk. She hopes she’s drunk. She’s been doing her best to ignore the glares Fenris has been giving her from his position slouched over his cards across the table, which has led to more drinking than usual for a game night, and far too much lost coin. Much to Varric and Izzy’s delight. Bastards. 

She’s long since folded, and it’s just Isabela, Varric and Fenris still in the game. Hawke blows out a breath and leans into Anders. He rubs a hand over her back casually, watching the players. 

“I can’t decide if he plays better when he’s angry, or if the perpetual scowl which I’ve put back on his face is just his best poker face,” she mumbles, eying Fenris. 

She feels the laugh rumble through Anders’ chest at her side. Fenris looks up sharply and narrows his eyes at the pair of them before flicking his gaze back to his hand. Anders ducks his head close to her ear and murmurs,

“Sweetheart, that’s just what his face looks like.”

Jicosa snickers and reaches back to pat his chin awkwardly, nearly missing and sliding her hand down his coat instead since she’s not watching what she’s doing. There’s a shift; Anders’ hand tightening at her waist and his torso stiffening, and then he chuckles. He pulls her hand away from his face and presses a kiss to the back of it. 

“You’re drunk, Cosa,” he says with a snort.

“Mm,” she grins. “Thankfully.”

Fenris is pretending he’s not watching them from the corner of his eyes.

Across the table, Merrill pipes up. “Hawke, um, if you’re not busy, I’ve – I’ve been meaning to talk to you. There’s a – thing – that I need – and, and I need your help.”

“Shoot, Merrill,” Jicosa says, straightening up and focusing her somewhat blurry gaze on the elf. 

“Well,” Merrill glances around the table and leans forward. “My mirror, you know the one I’ve been working on for the last few years? It…doesn’t work. I think it’s because it needs to be finished with a – a special tool? An arulin’holm. And my clan has one.” 

Both Fenris and Anders start glowering at the blood mage when she brings up her killer pet mirror. Jicosa drums her fingers against the table and ignores them both. 

“So…what, you want to head out to Sundermount? Get Marethari to give you this arlin’helm thingamajig?” 

Merrill nods vigorously. “Yes, I – if you don’t mind? I need your help with the Keeper. I can’t talk to her. She has a disappointed frown that turns your bones to jelly! Please, Hawke? You will help me, won’t you?”

“Yes, why don’t why we all just run off to help the blood mage with her demon-y mirror problem. What a brilliant idea. Please tell me you’re not considering this, Hawke.” Anders scowls, his tone biting.

“Marvelous. The mage wants help with her demon-dealing,” Fenris growls at nearly the same time. He and Anders eye each other and then Fenris grunts, “I agree with the abomination, Hawke. This is a terrible plan.”

“Don’t agree with me, Fenris,” Anders grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. “It makes me very uncomfortable.”

Merrill sinks down in her seat, her ears lowering. She looks down at her hands.

“Oh hush, the both of you,” Hawke says loudly. “We’re helping Merrill, end of discussion.” She smiles warmly at the elf, who brightens and sits up again.

“You will? Really? Oh thank you, Hawke! Ma serannas! I’ll find some way to repay you, I promise!” 

Jicosa waves a hand. “Not necessary, Merrill. That’s what friends are for.” She glances around the table. “Anybody up for a camping trip tomorrow? Varric, Fenris, Anders?” She eyes the three men who nearly always form the backbone of her various expeditions. 

“I’m in, Hawke,” Varric says. “I’ll clear my schedule.”

“For Merrill, I’ll tag along too this time,” Isabela says.

Aveline excuses herself claiming guard duties, which Hawke expects, and then Fenris and Anders exchange a glance across the table and mutter their own acquiescence. 

_Do anything I asked, indeed._ Jicosa thinks of Anders' earlier words. _When it comes to jobs, maybe._

“There you are. We’ll get it sorted tomorrow, Merrill,” Hawke says, with a reassuring nod.


	3. Chapter 3

“I give this heirloom of my clan to you for safekeeping, Hawke,” Marethari says, and Jicosa has to resist the urge to glower at the Dalish Keeper.

“Right. Because I’m so good at keeping things safe. Known for it, in fact. Just ask my sister. Or all the bandits we slew on the road today; I’m sure they could assure you how marvelously tame and safe I am to be around.” Marethari is already moving away as Jicosa fires this out, rapid-speed, the twist of her lips sardonic. Jicosa grits her teeth. Damned arrogant elf. Goes on and on about how great it is that Merrill has such a good friend and then asks her to lord her friendship over Merrill like some kind of overbearing mother figure. No, thank you. That role seems to be already filled quite well. 

Jicosa turns at Merrill’s pleading expression, and holds out the arulin’holm before she can even speak. 

“It’s yours, Merrill,” Hawke says, clapping the elf on the shoulder. 

“Thank you! I knew you would understand,” Merrill breathes. She glances over her shoulder uncomfortably. “Let’s be away from here. The others are giving me the evil eye.”

**

It’s a tense walk down the slopes of the mountain towards Kirkwall. Merrill is able to keep up a brave face until the Dalish camp is out of sight, and then she’s back to sniffling into Isabela’s shoulder and clutching the arulin’holm tightly. Hawke leads the way silently, Fenris and Anders at her heels. Under his breath, Fenris spits words like ‘foolish blood mage’ and curses in Tevinter at the sound of Merrill and Isabela’s hushed conversation. She ignores him; ignores as well the huffs of agreement that Anders is making. At least they’re not outright badgering the poor girl anymore, as they were for the entire journey to the Dalish camp. Even Varric is mostly silent, keeping pace behind Isabela and Merrill and scanning the path behind them every so often. 

The sun is rapidly disappearing below the horizon when Hawke calls a halt to make camp. It’s not late enough in the year for them to have lugged along tents, so mostly it’s just a matter of spreading out bedrolls, lighting a fire, and setting a watch. She picks a small clearing sheltered on two sides by walls of sheer rock, the more difficult for them to be snuck up on during the night, and pauses to take stock of her current state for the first time since the battle with the varterral.

Jicosa has spider guts in her hair and between the chinks of her armor. Her whole body aches. She rubs at her forehead, and tries to ignore the dull throbbing in the back of her skull.

The image of that idiot elf running away from Merrill flashes in her mind, and Jicosa grinds her teeth at the sheer stupidity. What in the void had Marethari been telling the clan? Merrill’s quest to repair the mirror was dangerous and probably foolish, but the mage wasn’t as dangerous as the damned varterral had been, not by a long shot, and Pol _knew_ that, knew what he was running into. Why had the blighted thing been attacking elves anyway? It was supposed to guard them, wasn’t it? 

None of it made any fucking sense at all. A simple mission to help Merrill with her cause had left them with more questions than answers. Merrill’s broken sighs where Isabela has settled her near the center of the camp catch at Jicosa’s big sister instincts, and she sighs. She strips down to her tunic, then takes her axe and settles on the log beside the blood mage. 

“I know what you’re going to say, Hawke,” Merrill says, turning the arulin’holm over and over in her hands. “But it doesn’t matter if they hate me. I’m still going to do this for them.” Her cheeks, Jicosa notices, are streaked with tears and grime, but the set of her jaw is stubborn. 

“I was just going to remark on you looking like shit, sweetie. But if you want to reaffirm your undying selflessness when it comes to what’s best for your clan, that’s fine too.” Jicosa smirks at the elf, who gives her a startled look and then smiles weakly. 

Hawke sets to work scrubbing the day’s gore from her axe as Anders gathers wood for a fire and the others spread out their bedrolls. Fenris slams his sword onto the ground and curses again in that native tongue of his. She can sense the tension in him coming to a point. Really, it was only a matter of time before his wrath at the day’s events came bubbling out. He may follow her when she asks it of him, but she always hears about it later when her actions displease him. Jicosa sighs. Here it comes. 

“This foolish quest is going to get her killed, and many more too, before the end of it,” Fenris mutters as Anders casts a fireball into some kindling and sets it ablaze. Fenris strides forward, the firelight suddenly bright on his face, and he bares his teeth in a snarl and locks eyes with Jicosa. “I do not understand why you continue to support the blood mage in this endeavor, Hawke. You should never have given the arulin’holm to her. Mark me, this will not end well.”

Merrill clutches the ancient tool more tightly and Hawke feels a rush of anger surge through her despite her weariness. Bad enough he and Anders have taken turns sniping at Merrill all day. Fenris has also spent the entire trip glowering at her backside, as if _she_ was the one who ran out that night, as if he’s been violently betrayed by Hawke’s lack of secrecy and can only manifest the depth of his hurt by glaring daggers into her skin. She’s sick of it. 

Standing, Jicosa grips the shaft of her axe in her right hand so tightly her knuckles whiten and pushes back loose strands of her red-blonde hair with the other. She stares at Fenris and hisses, 

“Do I look like her fucking master, Fenris?” The elf flinches. “You all might follow me, but I don’t tell any of you how to live your lives. I don’t command you to stay when I want you to,” she trips over the word ‘stay’ and the look Fenris is giving her now is a wide-eyed mix of hurt and frustration, like she’s kicked him. Fine. Like the other night wasn’t just as much of a kick in the face to her. “And I damned well won’t tell Merrill what causes she can and cannot dedicate herself to. So why don’t you just piss off.”

“Hawke…” Fenris takes a half-step in her direction, his fingers clenching at his sides. He fixes green eyes on her face, and fuck him, a person could drown in those moss-colored depths, but Jicosa doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to hear what a terrible person she is for sticking up for her _friends_ when they need her because said friends happen to be mages. She is so damned sick of this argument. “I am merely trying–”

And then Anders is at her side, warm and solid even if he does stink as much of dried spider blood, varterral guts, and mud as the rest of them. He glares at Fenris imperiously.

“What’s done is done, Fenris. Hawke gave her the tool. End of discussion.”

“Of course the abomination would side with the blood mage. Typical,” Fenris spits, all the sincerity in his eyes suddenly locked behind walls of wrath as his attention turns to Anders. Jicosa feels the loss of that warmth like a clawing in her chest and tries to summon the irritation she was feeling just moments ago to drown the sensation. Anders folds his arms over his chest and draws himself to his full height – deflecting Fenris’ malice, she realizes with a start. 

“I am _not_ siding with Merrill. I am merely pointing out the idiocy of this conversation,” Anders says, his tone brooking no nonsense. 

Fenris looks like he’s about to argue when Varric chimes in from across the camp, “The scrawny mage has a point. Let it go, Broody.”

Fenris growls, low in his throat, and shoots one final glare at Anders before stalking away into the darkness. 

Hawke sighs, the tension easing out of her shoulders. She looks down and relaxes the iron grip she has on her axe with a wry quirk of her lips. When she looks up, Anders is watching her intently. She jostles him with an elbow. 

“Thanks, Anders.”

“For what, getting on Fenris’ nerves? My genuine pleasure, Cosa.” He grins, cat-like. 

Jicosa rolls her eyes and goes to fetch the bread and cheese she’s packed for dinner in her pack before settling down again next to Merrill. 

**

“The way I heard it told had something to do with three greased nugs and the Hero of Fereldan, Rivaini,” Varric says with a smirk. They’re all gathered around the fire. 

“Are you kidding me? Me, sleep with Hawke’s cousin?”

“Distant cousin,” Jicosa corrects. “I’ve never even met the woman. Which is largely due to her being locked away in the Circle and my family being perpetually on the run from templars, but,” she waves a hand airily, “let’s not dwell on the past.”

Isabela rolls her eyes. “Distant cousin, close cousin, whatever. The point being, have you _met_ Briseis Amell?” The pirate sits forward on the rock she’s claimed for herself, elbows on her thighs. “The woman has the biggest green eyes you’ll ever see in your life – for a human anyways; I think Fenris wins that competition -” 

Fenris harumphs. He’s still sulking back a further distance from the fire than anyone else. Isabela sends him a lascivious grin.

“- And those big green eyes are perpetually terrified. The child would have rather swallowed her own fireball than slept with me! And even if I wanted to – she’s a pretty little thing, no mistake – that redheaded woman with the Orlesian accent would have been like as not to put a dagger in my back. And I like my little life, thank you very much.”

“You mean Leliana the bard, the Hero of Fereldan’s lover? You met her as well?” Varric’s eyes light up. “Damn, Rivaini,” he chuckles.

Jicosa loses track of the conversation as Varric presses the pirate for details. She has long since moved on from scouring her axe to scrubbing at her armor – a bit halfheartedly, perhaps; she isn’t really prepared to give it the thorough polishing and cleaning it needs after today’s fighting. That will have to wait until they get back to Kirkwall. Still, the task of scraping blood and guts from the crevices keeps her hands busy. She glances up every so often at her companions – mostly it’s just Varric and Isabela talking, but their conversation seems to have distracted Merrill from her earlier distress, so that’s good. On the opposite side of the fire, Fenris is hunched in on himself in the shadows, brooding silently. As usual. 

There’s a loud exhalation and then Anders is flopping down on his back on the rocky ground beside her. He folds an arm under his head and twists to watch her, grinning.

“’lo, Hawke.”

“Hello, Anders.” She arches a brow at him and chuckles when he pulls up his knees so his feet are flat on the ground and starts tapping his toes. “You’re awfully chipper tonight.”

The mage hms, his blonde hair escaping its tie to fall into his eyes. Jicosa has a sudden urge to brush it away from his face, and she does, tucking the miscreant strand behind his ear. Anders watches the motion with over-bright eyes, not losing his grin.

“Nice to get out of Darktown and out in the fresh air for a change,” he says cheerily. 

“You’ve got no one locking you in that dank clinic of yours, Anders.” She sets down the paldron in her hand and pokes him in the chest chidingly. “No templars, no big bad meanies making you labor away all day. You _could_ get out more often, if you wanted. You know you’re welcome at the estate.”

“My work is important,” Anders says defensively. Hawke gives him the same stern glance her father used to use all too often, and he raises his hands in surrender. “All right, all right, so a change of scenery would occasionally do me good. Honestly, I’m not sure how much longer I’m even going to be able to stay in Darktown. There were templars practically on my doorstep the other night.”

Jicosa feels a stab of panic – it’s an acquired reaction from so many long years dreading the inevitable encroach of the templars on whatever life the Hawkes managed to build. She has no reason to fear them for herself, but she has feared they would tear her father and sister away from her for so long that even when neither of them are around to protect any longer, the mention of templars still makes her heart stop beating. If they were to take Anders too…Jicosa can’t bear the thought of it.

“Don’t tell me these things,” she groans, managing to sound her usual light-hearted and joshing self. “I might have to lock you up to keep them off you.”

The slow smirk that settles on Anders’ face is downright sinful. “Sweetheart, I’m not letting anyone lock me up. You included.”

“Well, that’s good then. And here I was, worried I might have to break you out of the Gallows if you’re not careful,” Hawke says breezily, fixing him with her grin.

He snorts. “I am capable of breaking myself out, you know. Quite a lot of experience in that area. And it’s not like I’m not careful.”

“Oh yes, the Gallows is so much like the Fereldan Circle, it would be positively easy to get away from. No matter at all for the great Anders, who flaunts his apostate status by running a free clinic that everybody knows about. But of course he could make it out if the templars were to capture him, so there’s no need to concern ourselves, is there?” Hawke’s sarcasm has a bite to it. She thinks about Bethany in that horrific place and feels her gut roiling, the perpetual guilt swamping her in force. Her hands are shaking.

Anders is watching her closely, though she doesn’t look over at him. He can undoubtedly see the anxiety on her face, damn him, but she won’t give him the satisfaction of confirming her dread by looking him in the eye. He sits up, scoots closer to her. Jicosa balls her hands into fists and then Anders covers her hands with his worn ones. This near, she can smell the lingering scent of elfroot under the day’s stench. 

“Do you mean that?” he asks softly, the gentleness in his voice drawing her to finally meet his gaze. “If they captured me, you would come for me?”

Jicosa bites her bottom lip and growls, “If they want you, Anders, they’re going to have to come through me. I’ve lost enough people by not being vigilant enough. If I had any inkling Bethany wouldn’t hate me forever for stealing her out of there, I would have stormed that shithole a long time ago.” Her voice drops low. “They can’t have you. Or Merrill. Or anyone. I won’t fucking stand for it.”

He frowns, rubbing circles over her closed hands with his thumbs. When he speaks, all traces of humor are gone from his tone, leaving only very real fear, “Just being with me puts you at risk. The knight-commander has declared supporting apostates a hanging offense. The thought of them hurting you…” his voice catches, and Hawke feels an answering catch in her throat at the way he looks up at her, eyes in shadow from the fire at his back and darker still from the intensity in his gaze. “Everything I’ve done to control this…I don’t care. I would drown us in blood to keep you safe.” 

Jicosa feels her heart thrumming in her chest, hears it like a pounding in her ears. The thought of losing Anders chokes her – losing any more of this small family she’s built for herself here in Kirkwall, really, but the fear for Anders is more immediate, more insistent than the thought of losing anyone else. She knows, somewhere in the back of her mind, that she’s been trained to think like this, conditioned to fear the templars and keep those dear to her safe from them no matter the cost, but that seems irrelevant. She can’t – she can’t be this afraid to lose him. It’s a paralysis. It will keep her from acting when she needs to, and if she can’t act, can’t protect or guard, she is nothing. 

She swallows heavily, lets the fear sink behind her blue-green eyes until she knows it’s not visible anymore, not even to Anders’ keen gaze. Pulling a hand out from under his, she taps him on the chin and laughs lightly. 

“Well now, handsome. That’s all a bit hasty, isn’t it – drowning people in blood.” She tsks. “Sounds revolting, if you ask me. If romance is what you’re after, don’t you think we should start with flowers…jewelry?” 

“If that’s the man you’re looking for, you’re in the wrong place.” Anders’ face tightens. He drops his hands from hers. 

Jicosa blows out a breath in his general direction and makes a point to roll her eyes exaggeratedly. “Oh come on, Anders, you and I both know I’m not a romantic. I’m just teasing you. By all means, bring on the bloodbath. You know I wouldn’t have the faintest idea what to do with flowers.” She winks at him.

There’s a moment where he just watches her, emotions she can’t quite get at playing behind his eyes. Then he snorts. “You just can’t take anything seriously, can you.” He stands slowly. 

“I can too!” She pitches her voice louder petulantly as Anders turns to walk away. “Like how great your ass is, I take that very seriously!” 

“Hear, hear,” Isabela calls out. Anders doesn’t answer, just wanders over to his bedroll and lies down. Jicosa watches him go, the casual smirk sliding from her face when she knows she’s not in any danger of him looking back at her. She rubs her temples, feeling suddenly drained. 

Varric and Isabela’s conversation resumes. With a start, Jicosa realizes that she’s been staring after Anders rather desolately. She grunts, gathering up the bits and pieces of her armor and lugging them off to her own bedroll. 

Across the fire, only the green glow of Fenris’ eyes give away how intent he has been on Hawke and Anders’ conversation. In his hand, the apple he had been eating lies forgotten, torn to ribbons by the slow squeeze of his clawed gauntlets.


	4. Chapter 4

Hawke grimaces at the taste of bitter ale on her tongue, but drinks it anyways. The Hanged Man might not have the best-tasting alcohol, but that long ago ceased to matter. She leans back in her chair and props her boots up on the table as Varric vacates the seat across from her. 

“Let’s take this to my suite, gentlemen,” he tells a couple of disreputable-looking contacts of his. “Hawke, I’m good for a pint later, when we’re done here.”

Jicosa grins ferally at him. “You better be, ‘cause you know I’ll hold you to that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the dwarf chuckles, heading towards the stairs. 

His absence leaves Jicosa alone at her usual table in the far corner, the one with the best view of the room and the door. She spends most of her free time in the Hanged Man, swapping stories with Varric, critiquing his retellings of their adventures and tossing in her own details, drinking with whichever of their band happens to show up for the night. It started back when the whole family was crammed into that hovel Gamlen called a home, and Hawke needed a regular escape. The tavern was a good place to pick up jobs, too, in those days raising coin for Bartrand’s expedition. Now she comes here to escape the oppressive responsibility of being a Hightown socialite. She’s expected to fraternize with the nobles like she was born an Amell and not a backwoods Hawke, the soldier and then mercenary, the woman more than willing to get her hands dirty to take care of her family. She’s still willing to get her hands dirty, and her reputation has spread enough so that the whole city knows – you got a problem, you go see Hawke, and you’ll find her in the Hanged Man. Provided you have the coin, anyways. She doesn’t work for free. Usually. Now that she has coin to spare Jicosa will occasionally take on a job without expectation of reward, if the cause is right or a friend asks. But she still has a reputation to uphold, so that doesn’t happen too often.

Jicosa tips back the rough wooden mug in her hands and glances around the barroom. It’s full, as usual, but there still aren’t any friendly faces or inquiring minds looking to get her to do something for them. She grunts. If she stays much longer she’ll have a flock of drunk patrons wander over and start asking for stories from the illustrious Hawke, and that doesn’t generally end well. She lacks the fine art of storytelling that Varric has and never knows exactly how much embellishment he’s put on their ventures, so any version she tells is like as not to be met with confused frowns. She could go home, she supposes. But no, if she goes home now, her mother will rope her into her current project, part of a longstanding goal to renovate and update the entire estate. Probably ask her to help her choose between fabrics for the curtains.

Jicosa shudders. No thank you. Varric offered to buy her a drink, anyways. So curious drunks it is. She picks out a youngish blonde man across the way who’s nudging his friend and gesturing at her already. Hawke sighs.

She’s so caught up in this train of thought that she doesn’t notice Anders’ approach until he’s standing right in front of her, blocking her view of the room. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” he says with a cheeky grin.

“Anders!” Jicosa brightens immediately. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. Thank the Maker! I thought I was going to have to spend the evening talking about my skill at slaying extra-large spiders again. I never make them appropriately scary enough, and then Varric always gets after me for undermining his efforts to build my reputation.” She makes a face and swings her legs off the table to kick out a chair for him. “Sit, sit.”

The healer obliges, raising a brow. “Nobody else around tonight?”

Jicosa shrugs, flagging down Norah for a refill and a drink for Anders. “Varric is, of course, but he had some business to see to. He’ll be back. As for the others…I think Fenris is still avoiding me.” She laughs loudly, hoping the volume will cover up the tinge of bitterness in her voice. “Something about my giving him the best sex of his life and then breaking his heart, I hear. Or, how did Varric put it… ‘afraid to bare his still-thorn-covered heart to the woman he couldn’t yet admit he cared for.” She grimaces like the flowery phrase leaves a bad taste in her mouth. “You know how he is.”

“Knickerweasels,” Anders shoots her a sympathetic glance. “He’s already turned it into a story?”

“Apparently he’s been working on a book about a brooding elf and a human warrior for some time, and this is just the crowning jewel. ‘The Finch and the Wolf’, he calls it. I’m a little insulted. If he's going to make such an obvious parallel he should at least name my character after a slightly more majestic bird.” She sniffs. “A finch is _not_ comparable to a hawk.”

Anders laughs, shaking his head. “I’m sure Fenris is _thrilled_ by this development.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Hawke says, glowering into her mug and then taking a long swill. “Like I said, he’s been avoiding me.”

Anders observes her over the top of his glass and then says, “Well, that works out in my favor actually. There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

Jicosa tilts her head to the side, fixing aqua eyes on his face. He looks on edge, nervous maybe, hunching forward and watching her intently. She feels a fluttering deep in her stomach, and it’s a sensation she doesn’t recognize. 

“Oh?” she asks, and is irritated to find her tone has a breathless quality to it.

“I need a favor,” Anders explains, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they’re not being observed too closely. 

Whatever ticklish sensation was going on in her middle suddenly turns to hard rock dropping through her stomach. Jicosa pauses to take a drink of ale and then pastes on a crooked smile. “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” she declares. She hooks her foot around the base of his chair and tugs him closer. “Step into my office, handsome.”

Anders blinks, his eyes tracking the sudden drumming motion of Hawke’s fingers against the table and the way she leans forward conspiratorially with her grin.

“Ah. Well. You’ve noticed, I take it, how many Tranquil there are in the Gallows courtyard lately?”

Jicosa’s smile drops instantly, her jaw tightening. “I have,” she mutters. She spends too much time there, lurking around the edges, pretending to browse the wares sold by the Tranquil mages while picking up every scrap of whispered conversation she can. It’s the closest she can get to Bethany, and while it doesn’t make up for her sister’s absence, it does make her feel like she is doing something. Even if it’s just standing watch on the outside like some sort of vengeful spirit, just waiting for the right words to be spoken to justify her desire – no, need – to see her sister free again. 

Anders’ face is tight, his eyes sparking with anger when he says quietly, “My sources say the templars are using the Rite of Tranquility to silence those who speak against them. They’re working on a deliberate plan to turn every mage within Kirkwall in the next three years. Apparently the plan is the work of a templar named Ser Alrik. Nasty piece of work. He’s-”

Jicosa stops him with a growl, her hand over his on the table. “I know who he is. What he’s done. I’ve been waiting for the opportunity to rip that bastard’s throat out.” Had it been a month already since that conversation she’d overheard in the Gallows? She remembers it vividly: the agony in the voice of the apprentice who professed to love, the horror that had threatened to choke her when the tranquil mage had answered, inflectionless, _I am Ser Alrik’s now. He is the only one who can command me._

They were abusing mages in there, cutting them off from the Fade and then using them for whatever perverse desires the templars possessed. Bethany wasn’t safe. Nobody was. It was only Keran’s many assurances that Bethany was a model mage in no danger from anyone that had stopped Jicosa from mounting a full-out assault on the place, carving a path to Bethany’s side in blood. It would be suicide. Hawke didn’t care. 

She only notices that she’s shaking with rage when Anders reaches for her, cupping her cheek in his hand. 

“Hawke,” he mutters, sounding alarmed. “Hawke? Look at me, dammit.”

She refocuses her gaze on his face and draws in a sharp breath. 

“What do you need?” she asks, her voice hard. “Just tell me what you need and I’ll see it done.”

Anders drops his hand, glancing around them once more to be sure they’re not overheard, and then he leans closer. “There’s a secret entrance under the walls of the Gallows. Come with me tomorrow night. Help me find the evidence of this ‘Tranquil Solution,” as Alrik calls it.”

Jicosa nods once. “Done,” she whispers. 

Anders smiles then, just a small twitch of the lips. 

“You are the one bright light in Kirkwall,” he sighs, and then his eyes widen, like that just slipped out, like he wasn’t actually meaning to say it. Hawke doesn’t know why, but it pleases her, the warmth mixed with uncertainty in his eyes. She lifts his hand and presses her lips to his knuckles. 

“Get Varric in on the plan,” she says. “We’ll need him. I’ll go and see Fenris.”

“Fenris?” Anders looks alarmed. “You’re not going to ask the elf along, are you? This entrance is a close-guarded secret. We can’t have Fenris knowing about it. What if he tells someone?”

“He won’t,” Jicosa says. “I’ll make sure of it. I know he hates mages, and I know you two don’t see eye to eye, but I trust him, Anders. And if we’re going into the Gallows, we _need_ him. We can’t take Aveline on a mission like this, not with her position, and I can’t afford to be the sole warrior. I need him at my back. This…it could be a bloodbath. You know that. If what you’re saying is true, if we find the evidence – we need to get Bethany out. Immediately. I won’t leave her to the mercy of that monster.”

“If he tells anyone, Cosa, it could be the lives of dozens of mages.”

“I’ll take care of it. Just…get Varric. And maybe Isabela too, if you can. Let me handle Fenris.”

“All right.” Anders nods slowly. “All right. If you say so, Hawke.” She’s still gripping his hand, and he looks down and squeezes her fingers. “I know you worry. We’ll make sure she’s safe. I promise.”

Jicosa squeezes back and then lets go. Pushing back her chair, she stands and reaches for her axe. “Damned right we will.”

She puts her hand on his shoulder and presses, and then she’s striding out of the tavern without looking back. 

**

Hawke makes her way to Hightown, keeping to the shadows. She doesn’t much feel like taking on any of the disreputables always lurking in the streets at night, not on her own. She’s cleared out a number of gangs in the past months, but more always seem to spring up. It’s a never-ending task. Aveline isn’t keen on what she calls Hawke’s vigilantism, but she doesn’t do anything more than complain, and she even joins Jicosa’s nighttime patrols on occasion. Casualties may be down in the guard, but this is due as much to Hawke’s efforts as to Aveline’s reforms, and both women know it. They each keep the streets clean in their own way, and Jicosa does what she does as much to keep Aveline safe as to keep the guardsmen and the rest of the city safe. 

Outside Fenris’ mansion, Jicosa skulks to the front door. Fenris generally sneaks out back ways, out windows or the cellar entrance – part of his longstanding plan to convince the neighbors the mansion is abandoned, which helps Aveline’s efforts to keep the Seneschal off his back. Jicosa doesn’t much feel like crawling through a first-floor window in her armor, though, and the hour is late enough that there aren’t any eyes to see her creep through the front door. It’s locked, as usual, but the door is in as much disrepair as the rest of the mansion. The moon is high in the sky, casting long shadows and giving Jicosa enough light to see as she puts her hands just so, turns the handle a quarter to the right and lifts the door partially off its hinges. The lock slides free. She smirks as the heavy door sighs open just enough to allow her through. Hawke is no rogue, so her ability to manipulate the lock on Fenris’ door never fails to please her, in the way a child who succeeds at something unexpected feels pleasure. 

The only light in the place is the far-off flicker of firelight coming from Fenris’ bedroom, and, eying the floor which is rotting through in places, Jicosa wishes briefly for a mage’s ability to conjure light as they please. She shakes the thought away – it is arrogance to envy such a small thing when the owning of that ability also guarantees your very existence is hated, threatened, and feared. She grunts, irritated with herself. 

Armored as she is, her heavy boots are not particularly quiet in the empty house, and she knows with Fenris’ sharp ears her presence will be announced long before she makes it to his bedroom. 

Sure enough, when she steps into the doorway, she’s summarily grabbed, long fingers around her breastplate, and thrown against the wall. Jicosa squawks. Fenris presses her back with one hand while the other is positioned, clawlike, just above her heart. He’s glowing. 

“Easy, Fenris, easy,” she says soothingly. “Just me.”

“Hawke.” He frowns, black brows lowering, and glares up at her from underneath his lashes. The light from his brands slowly fades, but he doesn’t back away.

Jicosa waits a moment for him to move or say something else, and when he doesn’t, she exhales slowly. Her gaze traces the glower in his wide green eyes, lands on his lips, which are damp and parted slightly. His breath smells like the wine he favors, not unusual for this time of night. She wants to run her fingers through his white hair, wants to press her lips to his. They were like this, before, when she’d dared to touch him and he’d pressed her to the wall, when she’d broken the unspoken rules of this game they’ve been playing for three years and pinned him and kissed him with all the desire she’d had building up inside her for so long. Maker, she wants him, has always wanted him, a wave of heat washing through her and settling tight in her groin. She feels like she’s going to burst from the pressure of it, from how much she wants him to stop running from her and face her and let her touch him, let her _have_ him…

Dammit. This isn’t what she came here for. And if she stays like this a moment longer she’s going to jump him. 

“Well,” Jicosa quips. “This is familiar. Careful, darling, you know what being pressed up against walls does to me.”

“Fasta vass,” he growls, turning away. He strides over and picks up the bottle of wine on the small table before the fireplace. 

Jicosa winces. “Sorry. I didn’t…Shit. I’m sorry, Fenris.”

He mutters something else under his breath in Tevinter, something she’s sure is unflattering, and tips the bottle to his lips. He wipes his mouth and glares at her from across the room as Jicosa straightens off the wall.

“Why are you here, Hawke?”

“I…” She’s prepared to launch into her request, but what comes out instead is accusatory. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“And?” The look he gives her is unrepentant, fingers toying with the neck of the bottle of wine in his hands. For once, he’s out of his armor, wearing a plain white shirt that’s undone halfway down his chest and black trousers. Jicosa tries to avoid eying the lean muscle of his chest, the markings that swirl across his skin, visible even through the material of his clothes. 

She folds her arms, her armor clanking in protest. 

“And I don’t like it,” she says, aware that her tone is bordering perilously close to a whine, aware that both of them are probably less than completely sober right now. 

He laughs, not his usual half-choked chuckle that always seems to catch him by surprise, but something darker – the laugh he reserves for deflecting. 

“I was unaware I had to answer to you for my comings and goings.”

“Dammit, Fenris, you don’t _answer_ to me. That’s – that’s not what I meant.” He raises a brow and eyes her, the question _Then what?_ obvious on his face and she groans. “I just…I miss you, that’s all.”

Jicosa’s face flames and she looks at the floor, feeling angry at herself. _He doesn’t want you, you idiot. So he enjoyed your night together. That doesn’t mean he wants to be with you. Move on._

“Fuck it. Forget I said anything,” she mutters. She’s pathetic, that’s what she is. “That’s not why I’m here.” When she looks up, Fenris is a few steps closer than he was, and she catches a brief glimpse of something like pain before it’s shut up behind his eyes. She wonders if she just imagined it. 

“Spit it out, Hawke,” he says, back to growling. “What do you want?”

“Anders has caught wind of some conspiracy to make all the mages in Kirkwall tranquil, and he needs my – our – help to find evidence of it.”

“You want _me_ to help you help Anders with his mage resistance efforts?” Fenris gives her a disbelieving look and another short, bitter laugh. 

Jicosa runs her fingers through her hair. “Look, Fenris, I know how you feel about mages, but we’re sneaking into the Gallows tomorrow night, and things could get ugly. I could use your help.”

“You’re sneaking into the _Gallows_?” he repeats. He steps forward and grabs her arm, so tightly it would be painful if she could feel anything through her armor. “What in the void are you thinking, Hawke? You know what they do to people who help the apostates!” His green eyes are wild, angry.

“Yes,” she tells him, unflinching. “Yes, I know what the new punishment for helping mages is, and yes, I’m going in there with Anders. And Varric.”

“Venhedis, woman, are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?” He shakes her. 

This is…unexpected. She was expecting a long argument about why he should forget his feelings about mages and their proper place, not the anxious way he’s studying her face. He grips her tightly and crowds close to her. 

“This is important, Fenris,” she tells him softly. “Anders says-”

“Anders,” Fenris sneers. “You would risk death for _him_?”

Jicosa blinks. “I regularly risk death for all of you.”

He releases her and steps back. “I should have known he would come for you the moment I stepped away. I did not expect you to let him in so easily. Perhaps he is the one you’ve wanted all along.”

“I…what?” Jicosa stammers. Her wanting…Anders? Is he mad?

“The mage has wanted you for a long time, Hawke. Do not pretend that you have not noticed the way he watches you, touches you.”

“Fenris…” Jicosa feels exasperated. “There is nothing going on between Anders and I.” He rocks on his feet and scowls, and she knows he does not believe her. “Anders and I!” She rolls her eyes. “The very idea is laughable. He’s a _friend_ , Fenris.” When he snorts, she gets angry. “And my friendship or – or more than friendship since you don’t believe me – is _not_ why I’m helping him with this. This is bigger than just Anders. The templar responsible for this plan, he, he…” she grits her teeth, unable to bring herself to expound upon _that monster’s_ crimes. “Bethany might be in danger,” she finally says.

Fenris crosses his arms over his chest, but he eases somewhat at the mention of Bethany.

“I need your help, because if they’re really planning to make all the mages in the Circle tranquil, I’m getting her out of there, and I’m getting her out of there tomorrow. And I don’t know if we can fight our way through the Gallows without you. I _know_ you hate mages for what they did to you, and I _know_ how you feel about Anders, but this is my sister, Fenris. No one deserves that living death, especially not her. Please tell me you understand that.”

There’s another string of curses under his breath and Fenris goes to the window and turns his back to Hawke. She fidgets, which is made extremely obvious by the way her armor jangles with every small motion. The moonlight gleams on his white hair and his lyrium, so that he almost seems to glow in a pool of his own light. Jicosa catches her breath. Damn him, why does he have to be so beautiful?

“Bethany is strong,” he finally says, “strong enough to resist temptation that would undo other mages. She does not deserve tranquility.” He turns. “This…plan you speak of, it threatens her as well?”

“If Anders is right, it does.” 

Fenris nods. “Then I will accompany you.” 

“Thank you,” Jicosa whispers, letting out a long breath. They both stare at each other for a moment, Fenris expressionless and Jicosa slumping, searching for the words she needs to express…she’s not even really sure what she wants to express.

“If that is all?” Fenris motions to the door.

“Oh!” Jicosa straightens. “Anders is concerned...” she grimaces at the immediate irritation on his face. “This entrance we’re going to use is apparently some close-guarded secret or something. He’s worried you’ll tell someone about it.”

Fenris glares. 

“Please, Fenris. Just…promise me you won’t tell anyone? It will put his mind at ease.”

“I do not see who I would tell, even were I to decide to.”

“Promise me,” she says softly, a plea.

He glowers for a moment longer and then gives one sharp nod. “I will tell no one. I give you my word.”

“Thank you,” she says again. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “Right. I’ll…I’ll go now. See you at the clinic tomorrow night.”

He doesn’t stop her as she turns to make her way out of the mansion, and that hurts more than it should.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's only been a million years in coming, but here's the next chapter. This one was particularly difficult and hated me for some reason, so there's some pov shifts going on (most of this chapter is written from Anders' perspective, for a change). And while originally this was going to be just a Hawke/Fenris/Anders story, Justice has reared his head and decided that he too has feelings on the matter. So prepare for some Justice-crushing-on-the-lyrium-elf, I guess? That being said, we now begin the slow descent into the fenders bit of this triangle (quadrangle? idek anymore). 
> 
> so sorry about the wait, and I hope you all enjoy!

Anders leaves the door to the clinic propped open that night, though the lantern is left unlit, and he _hears_ Fenris and Hawke approaching before they even make it inside. Or rather, Justice does. It’s the soft, unearthly chime of the lyrium singing in Fenris’s flesh, and, as usual, the spirit in Anders’ head rouses at the sound, radiating a soft thought like the catch of his breath. If Justice breathed. 

“None of that,” he hisses under his breath, quiet and quick enough that no one but Justice can hear him. They don’t have time for Justice’s complicated feelings about the elf with the singing skin, not when they’re on a mission. And anyways, Anders is still not sold on the whole idea of the mage-hating elf accompanying them into the Gallows. 

Anders steps outside to join them, as Varric and Isabela materialize from the shadows. He locks the clinic door and tries not to scowl at Fenris. If Hawke says he can be trusted to keep this to himself, then he can be trusted. It’s not as though Fenris has ever betrayed Anders to the templars before, surprisingly enough. Of course, he doesn’t think Hawke would ever forgive Fenris for that. Maybe that’s what stops him, his desire to please her at odds with his life mission to despise every mage he sees. Anders snorts. The elf certainly has a funny way of showing how much he cares about her, if his latest stunt is anything to go by. Then again, he’s here, isn’t he? At Hawke’s request, no less. Anders wonders if there is anything the elf would not do for her. 

_IS HIS DEVOTION TO HER ANY DIFFERENT THAN YOUR OBSESSION?_ Anders makes a face at this unwanted observation from Justice. _If she were mine, I’d like to see anyone try to separate us_ , he thinks back at his friend. Justice radiates exasperation in response and Anders smirks. The spirit does not understand why Anders spends so much time thinking about Hawke when there are more important matters to attend to. 

Hawke, Varric, Fenris, and Isabela are all watching him, waiting for his lead, and Anders pushes away this train of thought to focus on the matter at hand. 

“I appreciate you all agreeing to accompany me,” he says.

“Don’t be silly, Blondie. We’re not about to let you get yourself captured. And I think we all know you well enough to know you _would_ do this alone if we refused to come with you.” Varric hefts Bianca in his hand as he speaks. 

“We’re with you, Anders,” Hawke says. 

Anders smiles at her, feeling steadied just by her presence. At the warm thought, Justice stirs. The rush of displeasure from Justice’s corner of his mind is one that Anders long ago deemed to be the spirit’s equivalent of an eye-roll. Anders smiles just a little wider and ignores it.

“This way, then,” he says. 

**

It’s difficult to keep his thoughts quiet as they approach the entrance to the tunnels under the Gallows. He doesn’t have a plan, not really, beyond get in, get the evidence, get out. But where to _find_ the evidence? Something like this, a conspiracy stretching to the highest ranks of the Order, he thinks perhaps Meredith’s office might be the best place to look. _Off the main courtyard, up a flight of stairs, inside the hall, the first door on the right when you’re approaching from the main gates._ The directions to her office, from his contacts inside the Circle, have been burned into his mind for a long time. Most of the time, when Anders sleeps, it’s only Justice’s restless prowling through the Fade that he can remember. Those nights, he wakes with vague memories of green-tinged landscapes and a disquieting sense of homesickness and despair. But every now and again he is himself, and then he dreams of taking a boat across the channel and marching straight into Meredith’s office, unable to stop. He loses himself to Justice, can only watch as his hands crackle with the energy of the Fade, reach for his staff, draw on their combined energies to… 

Anders shakes the memories away with a grimace as Justice chides, _REMEMBER OUR MISSION, ANDERS._

The evidence. Right.

If he’s honest, the thought of marching into the Gallows terrifies him. Here he is, walking willingly into a Circle ten times worse than Fereldan’s ever was, and if they catch him in there – well, it’s only a short trip to the cells, isn’t it? No hope of escape from that. Anders clenches his fists at the thought of being locked up, and Justice stirs enough to say, _WE WILL NEVER ALLOW THEM TO IMPRISON US AGAIN._ He pinches the bridge of his nose and nods. His younger self, he thinks, would be appalled at this whole business. A few years ago he’d rather have run screaming – naked – in the opposite direction than willingly enter within the walls of any Circle. Then again, the idea of settling in the same city as a Circle of Magi would have been inconceivable. Justice has changed much in his life.

Then they’re outside the tunnel’s entrance. Anders stops and takes a deep breath. Hawke comes to a halt beside him and puts a hand on his shoulder. He smiles at her, warmly.

“Thank you again for this,” he says quietly.

“Of course, Anders.” Her voice is firm, confident, and there’s a hard look in her blue-green eyes, like she’s thinking _How could I not?_ Anders marvels. Her faith in him ever since that first day, when she walked into his clinic and agreed to help him save Karl without a moment’s hesitation, has never ceased to amaze.

“Are you ready?” he asks, and at her nod, he glances back to the others. Isabela shifts, toying her necklace, and says something quietly to Varric. Next to her, Fenris meets his gaze steadily, until Anders has to look away. “And…you’re sure Fenris won’t…”

“I’m sure,” Hawke interrupts, a small furrow appearing between her brows at the question and then disappearing with a cocky smile. She squeezes his shoulder once and then lets go.

“Right.” Anders heaves open the trap door and gestures. “After you, then.”

She grins, reaching back to loosen her greataxe in its sheathe on her back. “’Course. Can’t have your tender mage skin leading the way, can we?”

Anders rolls his eyes, the teasing relaxing him. Slightly. “Maker forbid,” he mutters as he watches her descend.

**

They meet only minimal resistance in the tunnels, mostly smugglers who make the mistake of attacking them. After, it turns out Anders need not have worried about where to find the evidence after all. He – or rather, they – see Ser Alrik leering over that young woman, and then…

Then it’s rage and wrath and justice’s high demands and Anders is lost, lost to the anger coursing through him, the pure, unadulterated _wrath_. They think of Karl’s voice, measured and emotionless, lifeless, so unlike how Anders remembered it – not like the soft gasps Karl would make when Anders slipped his hands under Karl’s robes, the ones he had to press his ear close to Karl’s mouth to hear, or the low, rough sound of Karl’s voice just before he came, nothing like the steady voice of Enchanter Karl during the lessons he taught the apprentices. They think of that damned sun branded into Karl’s very flesh, Karl begging to die, Karl’s blood on their hands. Now their hands are bloody again - it’s on their face and their robes and their skin like it was with the templars who tried to take them in when they joined. But this is good, true, righteous, the gore on their bodies and the fury in their voice and they cry out, “THEY WILL ALL BURN.”

They know nothing but certainty, pouring through them like sunlight through clear water, and this, this is Right, this is Good, this is all they have ever been, the pursuit of wrongs to right, and there is no more doubt, no more hesitation, no more need for sleep or food or petty human ties, only what they were made for, only Justice. 

“EVERY LAST ONE OF THEM WILL FEEL JUSTICE’S BURN.”

And this mage, how dare she question them? They are so clearly righteous. They are nothing like a demon out for their own gain, desiring what they cannot, _should not_ , have. They are nothing like those humans who use the excuse of demons to tyrannize and enslave. If she cannot see it, she must be one of them also, an enemy, one of those that must die for the freedom of mages and the cause of Justice. 

But suddenly Hawke is in front of them, her bright eyes flashing, and is that fear on her face? No, that can’t be right. She says, “Anders you saved this girl!” and that sounds true, seems true. They falter. Their course seems so clear and yet here is Hawke. They flex their fingers on their staff and look over Hawke’s shoulder to the girl, and it is only a moment of indecision, and they are thinking of reaching to shove Hawke out of the way so that they can accomplish what must be done. Then Fenris steps closer, his brands lit, glowing, singing, calling, a snarl on his lips. He looks angry, enraged even, and that is worse (how can it be worse?) than Hawke’s fear. Something…crushing, like sorrow, _human_ sorrow, fills them. It is jarring enough to separate their consciousness in two again.

Anders comes back to himself in horror, his only thoughts a steady stream of _no no no no I almost killed her Maker no no no…_ In the back of his head Justice hesitates, confused, because it was so right and clear but the singing elf looked so angry. He feels…something. Like the way Anders feels when a blade cleaves their flesh. Justice cannot make sense of it. Anders is distraught, screaming inside their head. His grief and shame overwhelm Justice, drown out any other emotions, become the spirit’s own. Anders hastily builds up something in their mind like a wall to keep Justice contained before he chokes out something to Hawke and the rest, and stumbles away from this place.

**

_Fenris waits outside the clinic until Hawke leaves, lurking in the shadows. Bits and pieces of their conversation drift out to him, and only serve to infuriate him further. The abomination goes and nearly murders her, and she turns back to him and begs him not to leave? His lip curls in disgust. She should just allow him to go. She would be better off without him. He intends to tell him as much._

**

The clinic door is opened so forcefully that it bangs against the wall. No one but Hawke would have the audacity to barge in like that, particularly when the lantern isn’t lit, even if the doors are still unlocked. Anders rises from his cot behind the screen that partitions his little sleeping area from the rest of the clinic and rounds the corner. 

“Back so soon?” he starts to say before he’s fully emerged, a very small smirk on his face. Hawke’s words have reassured him – somewhat – that he isn’t a complete monster, that he and Justice haven’t utterly lost themselves yet. Anders doesn’t know what he would have done if Hawke had not been there to stop him, but…she was. At the least, she’s convinced him not to go dashing out of Kirkwall right this second. And if Hawke is banging in here it is probably for some additional dramatic method of cheering him up, which sounds welcome despite Anders’ lingering regret and guilt. Justice is a sullen, if slightly remorseful, throbbing in the back of his head. 

“MAGE!” Fenris bellows, and Anders comes up short to see the elf in the middle of his clinic. Fenris has his hands hooked into talons at his sides, which is all the more threatening for the fact that his gauntlets do, in fact, give him claws. There is murder in his eyes. Anders has the inappropriate thought that the elf might be even more beautiful than usual with the flush of rage in his cheeks, the way his whole body seems to hover on the verge of charging, like a finely balanced blade just ready to be wielded. (Justice hums his agreement, but Anders has buried the spirit so deep behind a self-protective wall that he doesn’t hear it). The problem with this image is that Fenris’ body is in fact such a weapon, and Anders feels the brief admiration fizzle and die in a very real fear for his life. He is alone. 

“…Fenris?” he says, tentatively, trying to make his voice even and succeeding only in making it quake. He wishes he had his staff in hand, with its reassuring weight, but it’s propped up on the other side of the room near the door. Behind Fenris. Anders swallows and decides the best course of action is to head towards the threat instead of away from it. That will take him closer to his weapon and take him into facing whatever has enraged the elf head-on. Not a great plan; one doesn’t charge an ogre from the front and he thinks one oughtn’t, really, to charge Fenris either. Anders takes a few steps towards Fenris anyways. “Can I, er…help you with…something?” he tries. It comes out cheeky, which is undoubtedly the wrong tone for the moment. 

Fenris snaps and charges, his hands wrapping around Anders’ throat. He whirls, throws the healer into a wall, and Anders crumples, dazed by the sheer force in him. Before Anders can gain his feet again, Fenris’ hand is back around his throat, crushing his windpipe in an iron vise. 

“Where is your alleged control now, mage?” He hisses in Anders’ face. Dark spots swim before Anders’ eyes; he feels himself gasping for breath, mouth spread open and wide. Fenris squeezes harder, the tips of his claws piercing Anders’ skin and drawing blood which Anders can feel, vaguely, streaming down the sides of his neck. “You. Said. You. Could. Control. It.”

Anders can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t come up with any response to this accusation that would convince the elf to kindly seize his choking. He wheezes, hands coming up to push feebly at Fenris’ hands and face, and then to seize in Fenris’ hair like if he just pulls the warrior’s head back enough he might convince him to let him go. 

“Fen…Fenris…I can’t…” And there are no words but these, a rasping plea that barely finds its way out his throat. 

Then Justice, up till now a restless stirring in the back of Anders’ mind, breaks through the wall Anders has constructed between their consciousnesses and comes roaring to the forefront of Anders’ senses. He grabs Fenris’ hand and twists so painfully that Fenris’ chokehold slips.

“UNHAND ANDERS NOW, ELF,” the spirit booms. Justice tosses Fenris to the middle of the room like a rag doll and stands imperiously, hands loose at his sides, blue fade energy crackling up and down his skin and blank blue eyes fixed on Fenris. This only seems to further infuriate the elf, who is on his feet again in an instant, charging back towards Justice with a snarl. He lights his markings, glowing a steady blue in contrast to the pulse of Justice’s light, and reaches to sink his hand inside Anders’ chest. The faint hum of the lyrium song in his skin changes, becomes loud as chantry bells at midday. Justice feels it in their chest like a physical blow. 

Justice grabs the outstretched hand before it can touch him and flips Fenris over onto his backside in one smooth motion, knocking the wind out of him. Then Justice is kneeling beside the downed elf and he wraps both his hands around Fenris’ throat – Anders’ long, calloused fingers covered over by the surge of unearthly blue that imbibes them with the spirit’s strength. 

At first contact with the lyrium brands on Fenris’ neck, the spirit practically melts, a weakness Anders can feel even if Fenris cannot see it. _LISTEN_ , the spirit says in their head, wonderingly. Anders can hear it too, the lyrium song Justice craved even before he joined to share one body with Anders. _HIS VERY SKIN HOLDS THE SONG, LIKE THE STONE, ONLY STRONGER. I THOUGHT THAT ONE PIECE OF LYRIUM WAS THE MOST PRECIOUS THING I HAD EVER BEHELD, BUT THIS…HE IS WITHOUT EQUAL._ Justice spreads Anders’ fingers wide against Fenris’ neck as if to bring their skin into as much contact with the lyrium as possible. His grasp against Fenris loosens, and the warrior gasps for air, gauntlets coming up to grasp at Anders’ collar. His claws tear through the simple fabric easily, leaving a large strip still connected to the robe seized in his fist. 

He’s still gasping, Anders realizes, even as Justice brushes his fingers across the brands in awe. Anders takes the opportunity while Justice is distracted to fight the spirit down. _No, Justice!_ he demands in his head. _We will not harm Fenris. No!_

_HARM HIM?_ Justice’s voice answers, but it sounds soft, almost dreamy. _NO. HIS SKIN…THE SONG…I JUST NEED TO TOUCH IT._ The spirit continues to trace the lyrium, but the pressure on Fenris’ throat is still too much, and Anders claws his way to the surface of his own mind shouting, _No, Justice, let him go! No!_ until it becomes a verbal cry of,

“NO!” Anders’ voice is a rasp, and he jerks his hands away from Fenris’ throat as soon as he has control of them again. “No…not again, Justice. Not again,” he says weakly, stumbling back. His robe rips halfway down his chest in the elf’s grasp, and Anders drops to his knees a few paces away. 

Fenris coughs, his breath rattling in his throat. Anders summons a swift healing spell to repair the worst of the bruising to his own windpipe, though not enough to heal it completely. When Fenris continues to lie mostly unmoving, his chest rising and falling rapidly, Anders feels a dart of fear go through him, one that doesn’t seem entirely his own. _I DID NOT MEAN TO HURT HIM_ , Justice whispers, finally realizing what he has just done. The emotion roiling from the spirit is…unusually strong, more remorseful than when they had almost killed Ella just now. He seems panicky. _HELP HIM, ANDERS!_ Justice demands. Anders obeys and scoots back to the warrior swiftly, his hands outspread over Fenris’ throat with a healing spell before the elf even registers his return. 

Fenris hisses loudly at the unexpected magic, reaching up to thrust Anders’ hands away, but Anders keeps them there until he sees the elf’s skin knit back together again, the bruising that was already rising vanished. 

“Damn it, mage,” Fenris growls, “Stop healing me with your cursed magic.” 

When Anders cuts off the spell, his hands are shaking, but he reaches out to touch Fenris’ neck anyways, prods at it gently to be sure that it’s healed sufficiently. Fenris grabs his wrist and snarls.

“I won’t hurt you, Fenris, just…let me make sure I got it all,” Anders pleads. 

Fenris throws his hand away from him like it’s a viper. “Don’t touch me.”

The healer sits back on his heels and nods, not making any attempt to touch him again. Fenris sits up, his face suddenly all too close to Anders’ half-naked chest. White hair falls into his eyes as he scowls, and Anders has to resist the urge to brush the bangs off Fenris’ face. Anders’ fingers twitch. Justice sort of…croons…at the thought.

Fenris scoots backwards somewhat and glares at Anders testily.

“You are losing control,” he accuses, but his tone doesn’t have quite the same bite as earlier.

“Fuck, Fenris, if you hadn’t _attacked_ me, Justice would never have…” Anders pauses. What had just happened, exactly? He frowns and settles for, “Never have…manifested.” Anders folds his arms over his chest and glowers at the other man. “I’m no match for you physically without him, and you know that.”

The elf narrows his eyes into slits to glare at Anders and hmphs. 

“You want to explain to me why you’re rushing in here and trying to choke me to death?”

“I should kill you now,” Fenris hisses. 

“Yes, well. I’m not really keen on doing that whole thing again, so if you’re going to do it, why don’t you just stab me. That would be quicker, I expect.” Anders sighs, abruptly too exhausted to care what Fenris does to him. Maybe the elf should kill him. Maybe that would keep everyone safe from what he’s become, what he is. A monster. 

Fenris eyes him suspiciously. “Your wrath may have been focused on the mage today, abomination, but you were only a moment away from putting Hawke in danger as well, and that I will not stand for.” 

“Because you’re so concerned about whether or not she’s hurt, are you?” Anders sneers and pushes himself to his feet, wobbling. “Sod off, Fenris. You’ve already hurt her more than I ever will.”

There is a pause before Fenris answers. “That is…not the same.”

“Isn’t it?” Anders whirls around to face where Fenris, too, has risen and stands motionless. “I think it is. What right do you even have to come here and threaten me for Hawke’s sake? You have no claim to her. You _ran away_.”

Fenris’s hands twitch at his sides. “Pfaugh. That again. Everyone seems to think I abandoned her and broke off every tie we ever had. As if I simply left her. As if someone like Hawke can even be so easily left behind! ” He bursts out. 

Anders blinks, trying to understand this abrupt shift. “…Didn’t you?” is all he can think to ask.

“NO!” Fenris growls. “I left her there, in her manor – I left that night, but I did not mean—” He drags a gauntleted hand over his face. “I do not know why I am telling you this, mage. That is not what I came here to discuss.”

“Yes, yes, you came here to threaten my life for getting Hawke into a dangerous situation where my abomination status threatened her safety.” Anders folds his arms over his chest. “Well, get in line, Fenris! You can add your murderous rage to my own. Do you think I _like_ realizing how close I came to hurting that girl…to hurting Hawke?”

“Maybe it’s time to realize your limitations, mage.”

“Yes, fine, kick me while I’m down. You’ve already choked half the life out of me anyways. Clearly you’re right about everything.”

Fenris is silent for a long moment, and then, “It was a suggestion, not a condemnation.”

Once again Anders is caught off guard. He studies the elf for a moment, puzzled. Fenris touches his throat gingerly and doesn’t meet Anders’ eyes. Whatever control Anders had over Justice tonight is now completely shattered. He feels a surge of foreign emotion – fondness, maybe, mixed with remorse, and then Justice speaks out his mouth. 

“YOU MUST NOT BLAME ANDERS. HE WANTED US TO STOP WHEN HE REALIZED WHAT WE WERE ABOUT TO DO. THE REST WAS MY DOING.”

“Justice?” Fenris recoils and steps back a pace. 

“YES. THE MAGE CALLED US A DEMON. WE COULD NOT LET THAT STAND. WE ARE NO DEMON, TO BE SWAYED BY PETTY DESIRES. WE DESIRE ONLY JUSTICE.”

The spirit seems particularly earnest, and Anders is pretty sure what he wants right now isn’t simply justice. He snorts, Justice’s hold over their body flickering long enough for the noise to be audible. Fenris looks confused, and Justice’s voice gains a desperate note.

“PLEASE UNDERSTAND, ELF. WE DID NOT MEAN TO HURT YOU OR ANY OTHER INNOCENT. WHAT YOU SAY – THAT WE MUST UNDERSTAND OUR LIMITS – WE WILL CONSIDER IT. PLEASE.”

“What would you like me to say, _demon_?” Fenris asks, putting a deliberate emphasis on the word. “That I believe you? Your very nature makes that difficult.”

Justice subsides, radiating disappointment. “I UNDERSTAND,” he says in a much quieter tone, and then Anders has control of his body again. He takes a gasp of air, and mutters, “Dammit Justice. You really need to stop doing that.”

Fenris stares at him. Anders drops onto a cot, suddenly too tired to keep to his feet, and prods at his own throat before healing it some more. When he looks up, Fenris is still watching him.

“I should go,” the elf says.

“Fine.”

Fenris nods, once, and makes for the door. He hesitates, just for an instant, near the cot Anders is sitting on. Anders’ heart surges weirdly in his chest. 

“Fenris?” He reaches out a hand but stops just short of touching Fenris’s sleeve.

Unreadable green eyes fix on his face. “Yes?”

“Um…thank you. I know you just tried to kill me and I probably shouldn’t feel grateful, but…I don’t know, there’s something about the fact that you care enough to try to kill me that is…reassuring? Don’t take it the wrong way, but I think…if I did…if I couldn’t control this anymore, you _would_ kill me – us – and that’s good. I’d rather be dead than hurt Hawke.”

Fenris’s brow furrows. 

“Get some rest, mage,” he finally says, and leaves the clinic.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait, guys! This chapter has been particularly stubborn. We're getting into the Fenders stuff here, and I think we will probably earn that explicit rating in the very near future.

The evening following Alrik's demise, Jicosa has summoned Keran to the estate at an hour after her mother is guaranteed to be asleep. This time, she warns Bodahn and asks him to show the young templar to the library when he arrives. It allows her to receive him from an armchair by the fire, lending a gravitas to the exchange that her bedroom lacks. 

(Never mind the voice in her head poking fun at the whole thing as she arranges herself in an appropriately dramatic position, legs crossed, arms flat on the armrests, back straight. It’s all a bit poshly ridiculous, the would-be lady receiving her templar lover formally in her library at the dead of night. Varric would love the shit out of it.)

But from the hall Martin, her Mabari, barks in welcome, something he never does when Keran arrives. 

“Cosa? You in here?” Anders’ voice arrives before he does. Bodahn hovers in the doorway behind him. 

“I’m sorry, messere,” he says, “I tried to tell him--”

Jicosa stands, feeling doubly ridiculous in her premeditated ‘you’re in deep shit’ position with Anders, and not Keran, here. 

“It’s all right, Bodahn,” she assures the dwarf. “What is it, Anders? Did something happen?” She crosses to him, abruptly worried. He’s never shown up at her door this late before unless templars were after him. Although in that event he usually used the cellar entrance, not the front door. She puts a hand on his arm and draws him further into the room, as Bodahn bows and leaves them to it.

Anders has dark circles under his eyes – well, darker than usual. He runs a hand back through his hair, which, she notices, is unbound. 

“Well, no. Not as such,” he says. “I, ah, I couldn’t sleep.” He’s twitchy, agitated, shifting his weight from foot to foot. 

Jicosa reaches up to tuck a few strands of loose hair behind his ear on impulse. That seems to still him – at least, he stops fidgeting to stare at her. 

“Talk to me,” she murmurs.

Anders draws in a shuddery breath. 

“I’ve been thinking about those papers we found on Alrik’s body,” Anders begins. “This changes everything, don’t you see? If Meredith and Elthina both refused Alrik’s demands, maybe they can be persuaded to see reason.” He reaches inside his coat and draws the papers from an inner pocket. “If we take these to Elthina, maybe we can convince her of the injustices perpetrated against mages in this city, and beyond.” He gesticulates with the papers in hand eagerly.

Jicosa nods. 

“Maybe,” she says, thoughtful.

“Will you come with me?” Anders asks, eagerly, his golden eyes fixed on her face. “To speak with her?”

“Anders,” Jicosa laughs. “Do you know what time it is?”

His brow furrows, like he fails to see the relevance of this question, and Jicosa knows the confusion in his face is due mostly to his spirit’s influence. She sighs, wishing as she has more than once before that Justice would allow him to rest. Even if just sometimes. 

The frown passes, and Anders looks sheepish. He rubs at the back of his neck with his free hand. 

“Late,” he says in embarrassment. He looks down at the papers in his hand. 

Jicosa shakes her head slightly, and takes them from him.

“Of course I’ll go with you. In the morning. Or whenever you like, really. Meantime,” she pulls open his coat and tucks the papers back inside his pocket, then pulls the fabric smooth over his chest, “why don’t you stay here tonight? I don’t like you walking back all the way to Darktown by yourself at this hour. Those Invisible Sisters are still about. It’s not safe.”

Anders is watching her oddly, his brow furrowed again. It’s several moments before he speaks, and his adam’s apple works up and down a few times before he says, “I can take care of myself, you know.”

“I know,” Jicosa says, letting out an exasperated breath. “But you don’t have to go proving it all the time.” Her hands are still on his chest. 

“Cosa…” 

“Messere Keran has arrived, serah,” Bodahn announces from behind them, and something crystalline hanging in the air shatters. Jicosa feels a pang of disappointment, and doesn’t quite know why. She turns.

Keran is in the doorway behind Bodahn, dressed casually as he always is for their rendezvous, and staring hard at the pair of them.

“Ah, Keran,” Jicosa smiles, mostly for his benefit. “There you are.”

“Hawke,” he says, by way of greeting. He looks past her. “Anders.” His tone towards the mage is decidedly more cool, before he turns his gaze back to Jicosa. “Forgive me, I didn’t know you were expecting anyone else, Jicosa.” Somehow the use of her first name feels intentional and weighted. 

“She wasn’t,” Anders says, and judging by the warmth at her back Jicosa thinks he’s taken a step closer to her. “I just dropped in.”

“Ah,” Keran says, not making a move to approach any closer than the doorway. 

This is so not going according to plan. Jicosa wrinkles her nose and looks to Bodahn, who is still hovering, waiting to be dismissed.

“Thank you, Bodahn,” she says. “Anders will be staying the night, if you wouldn’t mind seeing that one of the guest rooms is turned down for him, and then that will be all.”

“Very good, serah,” he says, bowing and turning on his heel. 

“Come in, Keran, don’t lurk about,” Jicosa says, waving him over. “I asked you here, didn’t I.” 

The templar sidles into the room, eying Anders as he crosses to her side. Jicosa turns to him next. 

“Now, Anders, you’re spending the night and that’s settled. Go on, you know which room you normally use. I’ve some business with Keran.”

“Business.” Anders folds his arms over his chest. “With the templar.”

“Don’t be a sourpuss,” she scolds. “Go on, now. We’ll go and see Elthina in the morning, shall we.” She gives him a little push towards the door. 

“Hawke…” Anders objects, not quite taking his eyes off Keran as he looks at her. 

She gives one final, threatening glare, and he goes. 

Keran stays quiet in his wake, and Jicosa goes back to her chair and pours herself a glass of brandy from the side table. 

“So, you and the apostate…” Keran finally ventures.

Jicosa chokes on her drink. “Maker’s flaming asscheeks,” she growls. “Why does everyone always think that? No, I’m not sleeping with Anders. Are you happy, now?”

Keran comes to stand beside her, touching her elbow, an apologetic look on his face. “Happier,” he admits. 

Jicosa rolls her eyes and pours him a drink, pressing it into his hand. “Sit down, Keran,” she says. “We need to talk.”

**

Anders is halfway up the stairs before he turns around again and goes back. He presses his back against the wall just outside the library door and listens. In his head, Justice grumbles about the immorality of eavesdropping, but Anders ignores him. 

“You KNEW about this.” Hawke snarls, and Anders winces. Keran’s reply is hushed, by Anders can tell it’s affirmative.

“And yet you told me nothing. You told me she was safe!”

“That’s because she is safe, Hawke. I told you, I’m looking out for her myself, me and a few others.”

“Alrik was going around making harrowed mages tranquil right under the noses of everyone in the Circle, and then abusing the tranquil under his care – raping them, Keran! And don’t try to deny it; I heard him, okay. And you didn’t think this was important enough to mention!?”

“That mess in the tunnels was you, then,” Keran murmurs. “I thought it sounded like you.”

“Don’t fucking change the subject on me.”

“Yes, Jicosa, I knew,” Keran sighs. “But even Alrik would never have dared touch Hawke’s sister. You’re too powerful, too well known in the city. Everybody knows you’re in with the Viscount and the Arishok, and Andraste knows who else. That and the fact that I’m personally making sure bastards like Alrik don’t get to her makes her perfectly safe.”

“So help me, Keran, if anyone lays a finger on her-”

There’s a shuffling noise, like someone’s moving, and then Keran says, low but clear, “I swear on my life, Jicosa, I will die before I let them touch her.”

It’s muffled through the wall, but Anders clearly recognizes the wet smacking sound of kissing. Justice goes abruptly silent, and the image in Anders’ head is vivid, visceral – that pretty templar kneeling in front of Cosa with his big blue eyes wide and sincere, and then her in his arms, her soft lips on his…

He groans, thankful they appear too distracted to hear him. 

“Not tonight, Keran,” Hawke says, breathless. “Anders is-”

“I don’t care,” Keran groans, and then there’s no more talking. 

Anders stumbles out the front door rather than listen to any more of it.

**

This is probably foolish. 

Fenris does not care.

He whirls just as the rogue reappears behind him, catching her twin daggers on his blade. He twists and shoves, dislodging them, and then one wide swing of his greatsword while she’s off balance is enough to bring about her end. 

There’s an archer, on the far side of the courtyard, and Fenris hears the bowstring’s twang as she pulls it back. He draws on his brands and closes the space between them before she can fire. She gives only a half-hearted attempt at a cry before he rips her heart from her chest. And that should be the last of them, the eight or so bodies of Invisible Sisters left broken on the paving stones behind him, but of course it is not. Reinforcements are dropping from the rooftops even now. 

With a growl, Fenris turns to face the closest of them. His blood sings in his veins, and he can feel the pulse of his heart in the lyrium of his markings, and he is a thing of death, made by violence and by violence delivered. Later he will ponder why he only feels free when he is doing what he was created to do, but for now he is the perfect weapon, and nothing more. He glories in it. 

He blocks, he parries, he slices, he deals death. Then the night is rent by a fireball from over his shoulder. Fenris ducks instinctively, and the Sister he was about to engage goes up in flames, the horrible stench of burnt flesh and hair filling his nostrils. The abomination makes his way across the courtyard to Fenris’s side, alone. Fenris nods, and makes way for him as if it is the most natural thing in the world, and perhaps it is. Three years they have fought together at Hawke’s side, and even without Varric’s bow and Hawke’s axe to back them up, they still fall in together effortlessly. Anders casts fire and lightning at their foes, and Fenris strikes at them when they are weak or distracted. He dodges the mage’s magic almost as if he can predict where Anders is going to strike next, and once, when a rogue circles around him without his noticing, Anders burns her to a crisp three feet from Fenris’s back, a strange light in his eyes. Fenris finds himself healed before he realizes he is cut, covering the mage’s back in return without conscious decision to move. 

Then the last Sister lies dead, and Fenris realizes he took as much pleasure in the mage’s assistance as he did his own strength. Welcome for the abomination’s interruption of his self-appointed vigilantism is…an unexpected emotion. 

Perplexed, Fenris turns a scowl on the mage.

“What are you doing here, abomination?” His voice rings out clear across the sudden hush of Hightown’s empty streets, and it sounds angered, even to his ears. He frowns further. 

Anders grimaces, nudging the body of the closest thug with the base of his staff. 

“Hello to you too, Fenris. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Fenris folds his arms across his chest and glowers. With a sigh, Anders looks away.

“We should check their purses,” Anders says. “Hawke will be put out if we don’t.”

Fenris snorts. As if he would be hunting down gangs on his own if he cared for Hawke’s opinion.

Anders squints at him, then shrugs and kneels. 

“Well, _I_ could use the coin.”

Fenris watches him rummage in the pockets of the dead for a moment. Anders is careful to avoid kneeling in the pools of blood, but otherwise the gore doesn’t bother him. His long fingers are quick, precise, efficient. 

After a moment, Fenris gives in and joins him. When it’s done, Anders summons a small flame to read a bit of parchment by. 

“The directions to their hideout,” he says excitedly, waving it at Fenris when he approaches. 

Fenris holds out the two money pouches he has collected his findings in, and Anders gives him a puzzled look.

“I have more than enough coin as it is, mage.”

Anders looks between the offering and Fenris’s face, the flame in his palm casting strange shifting shadows on his face. He knows this is true. Fenris rarely wears anything but that spiky armor of his, and he certainly has spent none of their coin from Hawke’s expedition on his mansion. He seems to spend his portion of their earnings on food and sword oil and the occasional game of Wicked Grace at The Hanged Man, and little else. And there is the clinic to think of. 

Anders lets the flame go out and takes the purses with a murmur of thanks. 

Fenris says nothing to that, instead nodding at the parchment Anders is still holding. 

“You discovered it. Does that make you the one who gets to give it to Hawke and explain how we found it?” Fenris rumbles, straight-faced.

Anders looks at the paper with obvious horror. 

“Knickerweasels,” he groans. 

Fenris chuckles, and Anders whips his head up and fixes his gaze back on Fenris’s face at the sound. After a beat, he gives a weak smile. 

“She is going to absolutely murder us,” Anders murmurs. 

“Probably,” Fenris agrees, voice wry. Considering he was out here to forget about Hawke, the thought does not bother him as much as he expects. 

Anders’ gaze lingers on Fenris’s face before he says, 

“I was at Hawke’s.” Either he does not notice the way Fenris’s face darkens immediately, or he does not care, because he continues, “She tried to get me to stay the night. Had Bodahn make up a bed and everything.” Fenris tightens his grip on the greatsword still hanging loosely from his fingers. “Maybe I would have, too, if…if not for that _templar_.” He spits the word. 

Fenris frowns. “Templar?”

But Anders doesn’t seem to hear him. “I don’t care if she is fucking him – she can fuck who she likes, what do I care. It had to be a bloody templar, though. She expects me to stay under the same roof as a templar? I don’t care if it is Keran, he’s still one of those self-righteous bastards, and there’s no way in the void I’m going to just stay the night with one of _them_ in her house, in her bed--”

“Mage.”

“—even if it does give her some peace of mind to know that I’m not wandering around after dark where there might be _bad guys_ , never mind you could call the man in her bed one of those--”

“Mage.”

“—never mind _I_ am one of them, more monster in the dark than anything possibly found between here and the under city, mage, abomination, the creature mothers warn their children against becoming in their cradles, and I’m more than capable of handling a few thugs on my way home--”

“You are that,” Fenris says, and that’s enough to finally get him to shut up and stare.

“Which part,” Anders quips wearily, “the monster-in-the-dark part, or the capable-of-taking-care-of-myself part?”

Fenris shrugs. “Both.”

“Gee, thanks, Fenris.” Anders looks at the ground, and Fenris finds his chest stirring with some emotion he cannot name. It’s certainly not affection, and pity or sympathy seem equally unlikely. 

“I see no reason to lie to you, mage. You know what you are.” Fenris surveys the bodies surrounding them, flexes his gauntlets and looks down at the blood caught in their grooves and plates. “We are none of us the stuff of fairy tales.”

Anders’ eyes are intent on Fenris’s face, and Fenris looks up to find the strangest expression there. Except it is not strange, not anymore, because it’s the same expression Hawke was wearing when she grasped his arm to prevent him from leaving that night after Hadriana. Desire. But Anders does not close the distance between them, as Hawke did; he clenches his hands into fists and trembles, and Fenris thinks he sees a spark of blue skitter up his skin and then disappear. 

Anders steps back. 

It’s curious, Fenris thinks, oddly detached, to find such an expression on the face of a man he purports to hate. More curious perhaps that he is not repulsed by it. Anders is an attractive man, and Fenris is not blind. Maybe it’s that the mage’s words have effectively erased any jealousy he feels regarding Anders and Hawke – it’s clear Anders finds himself as much outside Hawke’s affection as Fenris is. Fenris has made himself that way, undoubtedly, even if that was not his intention, and maybe there is merit to Hawke’s claims that Anders is merely a friend. He does not fear the mage, or his demon for that matter – if Justice wished him harm, he would have killed him in the clinic when Fenris attacked them. 

He thinks of Hawke, again, always again, her eager hands and clever tongue, the irreverence in her seagreen eyes when she touched him. And Maker damn him, he should have known better than to think a woman like her could be as serious about something so simple as sex as Fenris himself. If he had not spoiled it with his memories and his pain and his fear, what then? What might they be?

There is perhaps merit to the idea of trying sex with people other than Hawke. 

Fenris steps towards the mage. 

Anders is looking at the ground and rubbing the back of his neck and mumbling something about being on his way, so it takes a bit before he looks up, and by then Fenris is close enough to grab a handful of feathered coat in his gauntleted hand. Anders gives an aborted yelp and attempts to back away, his hands coming up between them in defense and attempting to knock loose Fenris’s hold. 

Fenris is undeterred. 

“What’re you--” Anders jerks, his eyes wide, but Fenris twists his hand in the mage’s coat and tugs him down and kisses him. It’s not a proper kiss, not really, too much teeth and fight in it, Fenris determined and Anders shocked and struggling. But the struggling doesn’t last, as Fenris knows it won’t, and when Anders gives in it’s to lower his head and part his lips with a moan. Fenris isn’t surprised to find he tastes faintly of elfroot, but he is surprised by the gentleness in the taller man’s body, the way Anders is loose and pliant under his touch. He holds very still, only reaching out to grasp at Fenris’s waist when Fenris doesn’t pull back, and Fenris lets fall his sword and reaches up to grip at the back of Anders’ skull. 

It is not like being kissed by Hawke because it is so much more slow, languid, lacking the need and intensity with which Hawke does everything, but it is still pleasant, achingly so - Anders’ soft hair against the patches of skin left bare by his gauntlets, the magic in him pulling at Fenris’s brands as it always does, but not painfully, the tremble that goes through the mage’s whole body as Fenris presses closer. And Fenris is unprepared for the slow unfurling of warmth in his stomach; for all this was his idea, _that_ was not the plan, not at all, and he pulls back with a gasp, letting go of Anders to ball his hands in front of him and press them to his middle as if that can stave off the sudden emotion surging through him. 

Anders doesn’t open his eyes right away, and there’s a shiver of blue up his skin again. When it fades, and he fixes his golden eyes on Fenris’s green ones, the emotion there is another thing Fenris is not prepared for. It’s fear, plain and simple, and Fenris’s stomach roils, painfully this time, when he recognizes it as the fear of one who doesn’t understand and is afraid he’s misstepped and will be punished for it. The fear of a slave. 

“I’m not going to hurt you, mage,” he says gruffly. 

Anders drags a hand over his mouth, and Fenris can’t tell if he’s trying to wipe the taste of him away or hold onto it. 

“What the fuck, Fenris,” he says, angry now, but he’s still unsettled, glancing at Fenris’s face and then to the ground and then back to Fenris’s face, his other hand balling and unballing into a fist at his side. 

Fenris exhales and bends to retrieve his sword, sliding it into the scabbard on his back. 

“Fenris?” Anders tries again, and his voice shakes this time and sounds, briefly, deeper than it should be. He doesn’t move except in the nervous movements of his fingers, doesn’t try to touch Fenris or make him explain. 

Perhaps it’s the sight of the mage even more uncertain than himself and the unfamiliar sensation of being the instigator and person of power in this dynamic; perhaps it’s the flurry of peculiar emotions in Fenris’s middle; perhaps the whole idea was a poor one (and Fenris wants to believe this most of all, but somehow he can’t, quite).

“Take your coin and go, mage,” Fenris finds himself saying in a voice far, far softer than his usual tone, and then he’s running away, or walking very quickly. Again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> blah blah blah nobody believes you when you say nothing is your fault, Elthina. 
> 
> also Hawke/Anders UST, because ofc.

Anders…doesn’t really sleep that night. He tries to focus on his manifesto when it becomes clear he won’t be able to fall asleep, but even that is ruined, rather than helped as usual, by Justice. The spirit replays the memory of Fenris’s lips on theirs over and over and over again, and he positively radiates giddiness until Anders wants to scream. 

He clutches his head in his hands and bends over with his elbows on his desk as he sees it again, the intent look in Fenris’s eyes and the strength of his fingers in their coat, and the feel – Maker damn him, the feel of Fenris’s mouth on his own. 

“It doesn’t make sense,” he snarls, trying to halt Justice’s relentless happiness by speaking out into the silence of his clinic. “The last time we were alone, he tried to murder us, Justice!”

 _WELL. HE IS NOT TRYING TO MURDER US NOW._ The spirit sounds smug.

“Doesn’t it bother you that he never told us why? Why now, of all things? What possible reason does he have to kiss us?”

 _HE KISSED US_ , Justice says obviously, as if this is enough on its own. 

“But _why_?” Anders hisses. “Whyy??”

Justice gives his best approximation of a long-suffering sigh in Anders’ head, and relents. _CONTINUE._

Anders gets to his feet and starts pacing. 

“We were coming from Hawke’s, because of her and Keran. Keran…” he stops and growls, having nearly forgotten the blasted templar in the resulting mess. Justice tsks, his disapproval of Hawke’s choice obvious, but Anders can tell that in the face of the kiss from the elf with the song in his skin, the spirit doesn’t really care at all. He prods ungently at Anders to continue, and Anders gives up that train of thought for later. 

“Then he just – he just kissed us!” Anders mutters. “Out of nowhere. In the middle of fucking Hightown.” 

_AS THOUGH HE SENSED OUR WANT_ , Justice says dreamily. 

“Andraste’s knickers, Justice,” Anders groans. “Please don’t say it like that. You’re freaking me out.”

Justice gives another sound like a sigh in their mind, this time feeling exasperation.

“You know what. We’re just…not going to think about this anymore. Nope. You can just keep it to yourself, Justice. Go away and sigh over the elf in your own corner.” Anders flaps his hand as if that will help push Justice out of the main part of his brain and into silence. Justice humphs, and the resulting feeling is rather one of Justice flouncing to the back of Anders’ mind. 

When it’s a little more silent in there, Anders sighs. 

“I have never seen you act so – so positively adolescent,” he grouses, deciding it’s time to try laying down again. 

**

“You didn’t stay, last night,” Jicosa says accusingly.

Anders jumps, nearly dropping the jar of elfroot he’s replacing on the shelf in his clinic. 

“Maker’s breath, Cosa,” he yelps. “A little warning, maybe? A ‘hi, Anders, how are you?’”

Jicosa folds her arms over her chest and glowers instead, and Anders feels a surge of irritation break through his weariness. She expected him to stay in her house while she fucked a blighted templar? Of all the harebrained, infuriating, Maker-blasted ideas. 

“Like you even noticed I wasn’t there till this morning,” he mutters, turning back around to straighten the jar on its shelf. He misses the flash of hurt in her eyes. 

“I did notice, actually. I went by to see if you needed anything, after Keran left-” _After you finished fucking him_ , Anders mentally corrects. “-and you weren’t there. Maker, Anders, would it kill you to let other people take care of you once in a while?”

Anders scowls blackly, and on this point Justice agrees. A _templar._

“You were fucking a fucking templar, Hawke. Forgive me if I didn’t want to stick around,” he grinds out. 

Jicosa’s eyes widen. “I—shit. You weren’t supposed to – I wasn’t going to…Shit.”

“Yeah, well, I did,” Anders faces her.

“It’s just sex,” Jicosa says. “He doesn’t feel safe going to the Rose anymore, not that I blame him, and I need the release sometimes as much as he does. That’s all.”

“Hawke,” Anders starts, rubbing his eyes, which he thinks are probably bloodshot. “It’s not any of my business who you sleep with. Frankly, I’m glad one of us is having a good time.” He is impressed with the steadiness of his voice, how rational he sounds. “But for the Maker’s sake, did it have to be a templar?”

Jicosa pushes her mouth to the side and gives him a calculating look. 

“He’d do anything I told him to, Anders,” she finally admits. “Anything at all. And I need someone in there to keep an eye on Bethy and keep me informed. Keran’s my eyes and ears.”

Anders gives a humorless laugh. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Well, yeah, a little,” she says, looking annoyed. “It’s not like I’m doing this without reason.”

“I’d rather you were just fucking him because you liked him, templar or no, than simply using him,” Anders says. “For your own sake. That really doesn’t sound very healthy, Hawke.” 

She gives him a glare. 

“Not that I’m…the best expert on healthy relationships,” Anders amends, cringing when he thinks about Fenris’s kiss again, and Justice stirs like he’s poking his head up over a wall because he heard his name. Anders gives him a mental shove back down again.

“Please don’t be mad, Anders.” 

He looks at her with surprise, at her swaying from side to side, her axe clanging lightly against her armor. Her eyes are pleading. 

“I’m not…mad,” Anders sighs, the rest of his frustration bleeding away. He reaches out to pull her into a hug. “You just surprised me. I didn’t think you were even still talking to that man.”

Hawke buries her face in his feathery shoulder. 

“Yeah, well, sometimes,” she says, her voice muffled. “And sometimes other things.”

“O-okay, that’s enough of that,” Anders says, setting her back. “I really don’t need details, Cosa, unless it’s for medical reasons. Please.”

She grins, catlike and cheeky up at him, and punches him in the arm hard enough to bruise. 

“So, you ready for your big talk with the Grand Cleric?”

“Oh, Maker,” Anders groans, rubbing his unshaven stubble. “I completely forgot.”

She gives him an odd look. 

“That’s not like you, to forget an opportunity to better the lives of mages everywhere,” she teases. Anders pulls a face, hoping he doesn’t look as guilty as he abruptly feels, though why he should feel guilty because Fenris decided to kiss him, he really doesn’t know. “Well, c’mon, a promise is a promise. Unless you’re really not ready?”

“No…no, I can come. Just…give me a moment.”

At her nod, Anders disappears behind the divider to his sleeping area. He washes his face quickly with the water he keeps in a bowl as a makeshift washbasin, then grabs up the papers they lifted off Alrik from where he’d stashed them under his cot for safekeeping. 

He grabs his most unobtrusive staff, the one that looks like little more than a walking stick, and steps out again. 

“Let’s go,” he says, and the broad grin Jicosa gives him sends a rush of warmth through his chest which he carefully ignores. 

**

“Ser Alrik?!” Elthina gasps. “Where did you get these? He was murdered in the Gallows not a few days ago!”

Hawke shifts her weight from one booted foot to the other, but she doesn’t back down or look away. She holds herself straight as a rod and stares the Grand Cleric down. 

“Maybe the where doesn’t matter,” she says, and Anders is caught off guard by the growl in her voice. “I wanna know about what they say.”

Elthina purses her lips and studies the young scion of the Amell house, this woman who has charged into the Chantry armored from head to toe and packing an axe as long as she is tall and demanded answers. Hawke doesn’t flinch. It’s not, Anders thinks, because she thinks herself above the laws of this city, or even because she thinks her new reputation somehow protects her. He thinks she’s really that batshit crazy, to come in here and as much as proclaim she murdered a well-known templar underneath the very Circle itself. Not that Alrik deserved anything better than what he got, and maybe that’s what makes her bold, knowing she was in the right. He thinks again about Alrik’s words ( _Once you’re Tranquil, you’ll do anything I ask_ ) and Hawke’s words to Keran, last night, ( _Raping them, Keran! And don’t try to deny it; I heard him, okay_ ) and Justice quivers with rage inside him until they burst out,

“He was trying to turn every mage in Kirkwall Tranquil!”

Elthina turns those cool grey eyes on him. 

“Ser Arik made a suggestion, yes. But we turned him down. The Rite of Tranquility has always been a last resort. It has saved lives, but it is not without its costs,” she says, the picture of calm and reason. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” And with that, she turns to go, as if this is all there is to say on the matter. 

Anders grinds his teeth together and thinks about what Alrik would have done to that poor girl if they hadn’t stopped him (he can’t think, now, what he too might have done to her, or he’ll go mad), thinks about Karl, thinks about all the others so wrongly made Tranquil against the very laws of the Chantry itself, and feels an entirely rational urge to punch an old lady in the face. He doesn’t realize he’s sparking blue until Hawke lays a hand on his arm. 

“That is all you have to say, Grand Cleric?” she calls out after Elthina’s retreating back. 

“You have asked me a question about certain papers, and I have answered them to the extent of my ability,” Elthina says, turning, crossing her arms and slipping her hands inside her sleeves. “And, I might add, I have refrained from questioning you on your methods of acquiring said papers, even though the fact that you find them in your possession is…dubious, at best, perhaps outright incriminating at worst. I cannot see what further there is to say on the subject.”

“It might interest you to know that this templar of yours was going around making mages, even Harrowed mages, Tranquil behind the backs of his superiors. Which is, as I’m sure you’re aware, _against_ Chantry law. Or maybe his abuse of his Tranquil charges would interest you more? In either case,” she says, her voice low and dangerous, “what I would like to know is how on the Maker’s earth you can stand to live with yourself when this kind of mistreatment is going on right underneath your nose? The templars of this city do answer to you, do they not?” Hawke gives a sickly sweet smile which, to anyone else, would spell certain death. 

It may yet, Anders realizes with a start. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Hawke so angry. 

“Hawke,” he says in a warning undertone, placing his hand over hers on his arm. 

Elthina approaches another few steps to say, “Ser Alrik’s actions were, as I have already said, the actions of one man, acting outside of orders. I deeply regret any harm that may have come to his mage charges as a result of his actions, but nonetheless they were his, and his alone.” 

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, if that’s what lets you sleep at night,” Jicosa sneers. 

“Can you pin one man’s hatred only on himself, when it is the Chantry that fosters such hatred?” Anders finds himself unable to keep from saying. “The oppression of mages stems from the fears of men, not the will of the Maker. How can you teach that mages’s very existence is a sign of the Maker’s hatred, and then act surprised when the templars abuse their charges as if they are less than human? If the Maker despised magic, he would not continue to gift us with it. The Chant says magic must serve man, not rule over him, but it is not magic that rules the Chantry. It is the fear of it. As long as you continue to preach that mages are an aberration of the Maker’s will, these abuses will continue, until someone stands up and puts a stop to it.”

“Anders, is it?” Elthina looks him up and down. Jicosa’s hand twitches on his arm, like she’s going to pull it away, and Anders is struck with the fear that she will reach for her axe if he lets her. He tightens his hand over hers. 

“It’s no secret you have close associates who are apostates, Hawke,” the Grand Cleric says, turning her gaze on Hawke. “Though your sister has done the right thing, turning herself in to the Circle. I understand she does well there. Perhaps you might learn from her example, ser?”

Justice gives a wordless snarl in his head and Anders is suddenly afraid that the only answer he can give to that will be in Justice’s words. 

“With respect, Elthina,” Jicosa interrupts before he can respond, and the way she says ‘respect’ makes it mean everything but. “You don’t know shit about me just because you knew my mother as a babe. Me? I’d rather cut off my own hands than condemn any more of my _family_ to that shithole. And If I do hear that any more of the people I care about have been taken?” She grins, all teeth and murder, nothing pleasant about the expression whatsoever. “I will burn that place to the fucking ground. And that’s a promise.” 

Elthina gapes, struck wordless by the venom in Hawke’s gaze and the violence of her words in this sacred space. 

Anders is pretty sure he’s never been more turned on in his life.

“C’mon, Anders,” Jicosa growls. “Let’s get out of here.” She turns, tugging at his arm, and Anders follows without thought, sending one last glance over his shoulder to the Grand Cleric.

“You may think yourself above the law, Serah Hawke,” Elthina calls out to their backs when they’re halfway down the stairs, “but you are not. I pray for your soul, that you may yet not be lost to the darkness.”

Jicosa stiffens, and Anders slips his arm out from under her hand and around her waist to usher her onward before she can turn and give the Grand Cleric a rude hand gesture.

“Not worth it, Cosa,” he murmurs, and Hawke humphs, glaring back at Elthina before she allows Anders to lead her out. 

When the great golden doors slam behind them, Hawke steps away from him and clenches her hands into fists and makes a noise rather like a low roar. 

“That fucking two-faced, self-righteous....ooooh. I could just – I could…” She growls, her fingers tensing like she wants to strangle someone. 

Anders reaches for one of her hands and uncurls her fist, cups her cheek with his other hand. 

There’s a lightness in his chest, and an ache also, and he wants her fiercely. Not that he was denying it, before, but it has never been this strong, the desire he has for her, the one Justice derides as a distraction and pushes away and insists they ignore. Now, though, Justice hums his approval and his admiration of her words in his head, and the things Anders’ body is doing are things Justice still does not really understand, so there is no judgment there. Not yet, anyways. 

Jicosa tilts up her chin and her blue-green eyes meet his with barely controlled rage. It is all Anders can do not to brush the pad of his thumb over her lips and kiss her, right here on the steps of the Chantry.

“Maker’s breath, I could kiss you right now,” he says, trying to make a joke out of it. He fails, of course; it comes out a rasp, a want, too intense, too full of feeling. 

She blinks, the anger gone in her eyes gone in the space between heartbeats, and maybe he imagines the way her pupils dilate. She cocks her head and stares. 

Anders doesn’t move, doesn’t think, doesn’t breathe, just keeps his hand pressed to her face and the other clasped around her fingers. The moment passes, then another.

“You really need to get laid if just somebody saying mages deserve basic human rights gets you hard, Anders,” she finally says, laughing up at him in a way that doesn’t quite meet her eyes. But again she blinks and the emotion is gone, and her mirth seems real. She pats his cheek and steps away from his grasp, towards the stairs.

Anders chuckles uncomfortably, resisting the simultaneous urge to press his hand to his cheek where hers just was and also adjust so that it’s less obvious that he is, in fact, hard. Which would of course defeat the purpose. He does neither, just watches her clunk her way down the stairs and away from the Chantry.

“I need a drink,” she calls back to him, never mind the fact it’s still midmorning. “You coming?”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand the award for slowest updater goes to me! \o/ Seriously, though, props to all of you guys for sticking with me through this (there are getting to be quite a lot of you...*eyes subscriber total*). 
> 
> This chapter we have Fenris x Anders smooching! Very exciting.
> 
> Also, it may interest you to know that Reconcile's one year anniversary was last Wednesday, on November 4. *throws confetti* To celebrate, have some art that I recently commissioned! There is a lovely portrait of Jicosa Hawke [here](http://thecryoftheseagulls.tumblr.com/post/132520052074/bigbuffpugpuff-hawke-for-thecryoftheseagulls), done by bigbuffpugpuff, and also, art of Fenris and Ander and Jicosa all three being absurdly happy and adorable together (at some nebulously future date), which sabubu91 did, [here](http://thecryoftheseagulls.tumblr.com/post/132479957164/sabubu91-prize-for-thecryoftheseagulls-winner). 
> 
> keep being awesome, all of you <3

Fenris has not been back to The Hanged Man since he discovered that Hawke had told everyone about their night together. He curses himself for a coward, for his inability to face her after all that has happened, for his inability to move on as easily as she does. He cannot think of her without a pit of want and guilt in his stomach. 

It takes the better part of a day and an entire bottle of wine to gather himself to go to the tavern this evening, as he has done often, game night or no. He needs to achieve a semblance of normalcy again. If he can pretend he is unaffected by Hawke, perhaps he will eventually come to believe it himself. 

He only realizes he has made a grave error when he steps through the doors of the tavern and sees most of his friends (Varric and Isabela, Anders and Hawke) all gathered at Hawke’s usual table. The panic that floods him at the sight is entirely unexpected, because _Anders_ is there for once on a night that is not game night, and that was a complication he did not anticipate. 

He has very deliberately not thought about his actions in the streets of Hightown last night. 

Now, his knees are weak with this strange anxiety, the urge to _run_ overwhelming, and he knows he cannot do this. Not now. He cannot face them both, the woman he feels so much for still and the mage for whom he finds himself feeling _something_. He whirls on his heel and disappears back out the door, thankful none of his friends noticed his arrival in the first place. 

The moon in Kirkwall’s streets is bright tonight, and Fenris hurries into the shadows of the alley just off the tavern, feeling his heart pound in his ears. He leans a hand heavily against a wall and ducks his head, taking a few deep breaths. Vishante kaffas, what is _wrong_ with him? It takes him three years of flirting to attempt to broach anything with Hawke, and then he runs from her in pain and sheer blind panic, and fucks everything up, and now – _now_ he is kissing mages in the middle of the night and feeling – things – he cannot explain. He would think the abomination had placed some kind of spell on him, if he could not remember the fear on Anders’ face after they had kissed so vividly. He wonders, now, if he simply imagined the desire on Anders’ face, misread the man entirely, because it seems obvious he does not want Fenris, and who can blame him? Fenris had tried to kill him, a rash action precipitated by his fear and the feelings for Hawke he is still running from, and he has professed to hate the man and all he stands for for years. 

But it is not thoughts of Hawke driving him away now, it is panic at the idea of meeting Anders’ gaze across that table and pretending he feels nothing aside from their usual animosity. He does not know what to do with this emotion, because what he feels, beneath panic and fear and discomfort, is a strange desire to banish the fear away from Anders’ face, to atone for the cruelty that has put it there. He wants to kiss the mage again and see if he imagined the gentleness in Anders’ touch and the pleasant warmth that it evoked. 

This desire is even more upsetting than the memories he could not face in Hawke’s bedroom. 

He looks up at the moon, high in the sky, and takes a deep breath. The Lowtown air smells rank, the scent of fish drifting up from the docks and mixing with the faint smell of boiled cabbage that pervades constantly from the foundries. In the street, the tavern door opens, spilling light across the ground. The babble of voices from inside is cut off abruptly as the door swings shut again. Fenris shifts on his bare feet, not looking around, but when the door is shut he can hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps coming towards him. It is a tread he recognizes, with the way it falters with every second step. Anders and his weak knee. He tenses his shoulders and waits for Anders to pass him by, but instead, the footsteps follow him to the mouth of the alley and then just…stop. He strains against the silence, but hears nothing more, neither Anders’ approach nor his retreat. 

“Mage,” Fenris says wearily, wishing he could continue to pretend he does not know the mage is there. But the longer this goes on the more tense he gets. “Are you going to simply stand there all night?”

Anders takes a breath behind him.

“No.” He steps forward just as Fenris turns. “Just…admiring the view.” The smile he gives isn’t as bold as usual, and Fenris cocks his head, one dark brow edging towards his hairline. Is he flirting? 

“Did you…follow me?” Perhaps Fenris did not go so unnoticed as he thought.

“I wanted to see if you were all right. Were you leaving again?”

“I…yes.” He looks away, letting his fringe fall into his eyes to hide his turmoil from Anders’ keen eyes.

Anders is quiet until Fenris looks back at him, and then he asks, gently, “Because of me?”

“Do not flatter yourself, mage,” Fenris mutters, but the words lack bite, and he cannot match Anders’ gaze.

“Oh, okay. Clearly I just imagined the fact that you kissed me last night. And are now, apparently, avoiding me. Because I can’t think of any other reason for you to take one look at the group and turn right back around and run away.” Anders reaches up and runs his fingers through his hair in an abrupt movement. His lips thin, and he gives Fenris an angry look, closer to their usual interactions, except it seems shakier, as if it is not quite true anger. “I’ll just leave you to it, then. I’m sure you have some terribly pressing brooding to do, with a logical explanation for your behavior that of course only you understand. Whatever.” Anders turns to go, and Fenris thinks, again, of Anders’ uncertainty when he pulled away before. His heart lurches. The emotion is approximate to his earlier panic, except this time it pushes him towards Anders, rather than away from him.

“…Wait.” He steps forward, but doesn’t touch the mage, and just the word is enough to bring Anders to a halt. Fenris bites his lip, not sure what it was he had wanted to say. He had just, inexplicably, not wanted Anders to leave. “Forgive me,” he murmurs, looking back down. He shifts his weight from one bare foot to the other. “I do not…this does not…come easy, to me.” He sighs. “I should not have kissed you. I did not mean to make you afraid. It was a mistake.”

“A mistake.” Anders closes his eyes and gives a quiet, humorless laugh. His shoulders curve inwards. “Of course. Of course it was. I know.” 

Fenris reads disappointment on Anders’ face, but he doesn’t understand it. 

“Do you really think I would be out here if I was afraid of you?” Anders finally asks, opening his eyes to peer at him.

“I…” Fenris finds himself at a loss for words. “I…do not…” It was fear he had seen on Anders’ face last night, of that much he is certain, but it is true that this - Anders following him, out of what seems to be concern - does not make sense.

Anders considers him a long moment, rubbing his bristled jaw, and then he gives a small smile. “Maker, you really are bad at this.” 

Fenris frowns.

“What you said in the clinic, about Hawke…I know you still care about her, Fenris. But I liked kissing you. I probably have a death wish, since you’ve already tried to kill me once, but there it is.” Anders’ lips curve wryly, and he shrugs. 

Fenris does not want to think about Hawke. “I…apologize,” he says, surprising himself. “I should not have attacked you as I did. It was…wrong of me.” He thinks of the way Anders thanked him afterwards, as though his willingness to kill a man he might have called a sort of friend was a gift. It dredges up memories of another conversation they’d had once, about suicide. _Some things are worse than death_ , Anders had said. The mage’s cavalier attitude towards his own death is disturbing.

Anders is staring. “Did you really just…?” He touches the back of his own skull with a perplexed expression. “Surely I hit my head. Let Hawke coax me into one too many watered down ales? Something.”

“Do not read too much into it,” Fenris says gruffly, trying to suppress a smile.

Anders blinks a few times and then smiles, a real, warm smile that grows the longer Anders looks at him. Fenris does not think he has ever seen that exact expression on the mage’s face before – it softens him, makes him look younger and happier. 

There is a small curl of warmth in chest in response.

“Oh, I am so going to read into it. It’s too late now. Really, if you didn’t want me to, you shouldn’t have gone about kissing lonely mages that haven’t been kissed in…well, never mind that.” Anders gives a small bounce on the balls of his feet, still smiling.

“Bah,” Fenris mutters, shaking his head and looking down, wishing he could shake the peculiar warm feeling away. The mage, of all people! This is absurd. He should be on his way, not lurking about a dark alley and dwelling on the brightness of a mage’s smile. But he does not move.

“We could…do it again, if you wanted.” When Fenris looks up sharply at him, Anders waves his left hand in a half-hearted warding gesture and then crosses his arm over his heart. “Just a suggestion! Don’t de-heart me!” He laughs, lightly, but the laughter fades when he sees the frown on Fenris’s face. “Fenris?” Anders makes a face. “Sorry. I know Hawke…”

Fenris pushes away the discomfort he feels even at Anders’ joking fear of him and steps towards him. 

“Stop talking.”

Anders closes his mouth with a snap and watches, wary, as Fenris reaches down and undoes the clasps of a gauntlet, pulling it off. He puts it in one of the pouches at his belt. When Anders doesn’t move away, Fenris steps further into his space and lifts his bare hand to the mage’s cheek. He runs his thumb over Anders’ cheekbone.

Anders’ breath hitches, his lips parting in a small o, and Fenris feels a frisson of fear go through him. He does not know what he is doing, or why he is doing it, just knows Anders’ lowered lashes and heated look stir something inside him, different than what he has felt for Hawke all this time. Fenris does not know what it is – the emotion is a puzzlingly soft one – and the only thing he is really certain of is that he wants to understand it. He is a free man, now. He can take what he wants.

Fenris slips his hand around the back of Anders’ skull to pull him down and close the inches between them. The kiss is gentle again, slow. Fenris keeps his lips chaste against Anders’ and tries to reach down and touch the unfurling warmth inside him, wrap his mind around it, but Anders reaches forward to stroke his fingers down the marks on Fenris’s throat. Fenris jerks, slightly, his markings flaring, but the feeling that flows all through him is _good_ – it feels like all the lyrium in his body hums at once with soft pleasure in response to the latent sparks of magic in the mage’s fingertips. His eyes slide shut and he moans softly, pressing closer. Anders hums, a pleased noise, and Fenris feels him grasp at his waist and pull him even tighter to his chest. Anders’ lips are warm and damp; he swipes his tongue tentatively against Fenris’s bottom lip, and at some point Fenris tugs the tie from Anders’ hair and tightens his bare fingers in the strands that fall to hang about his face. 

When the kiss breaks, Fenris clasps the hair in his hand all the more firmly and leans up on his toes to press his forehead against Anders’. He is breathing heavily, but so is the mage. Anders slides his hand down from Fenris’s chin to his chest and just…rests it there, over his breastplate, where it rises and falls with his breath. 

And that did not clarify anything whatsoever, because yes, Anders is absurdly gentle, but also Fenris thinks he enjoyed the kiss _more_ for the fact he was kissing a mage. The lyrium in his skin reacted in a way that was entirely pleasant, which is…bizarre. He lets out a frustrated noise, still enjoying the warmth of the mage’s skin against his brow and those long fingers splayed out over his armor.

“Fenris? Was that too much? Are you okay?” Anders pulls back to look at him, and Fenris lets out another frustrated sound at the loss of contact.

“Hush, mage. I am fine.” He reluctantly drops his hand to his side.

Anders studies him, looking doubtful, but he doesn’t move back again.

“Will they notice if you do not return?” Fenris asks. Surely Anders did not tell the others he had seen Fenris and was going to check on him? They would not have believed him. And if they had, they would have followed him.

Anders shakes his head. “No, I told them I was going home for the night.” Fenris gives a short nod and there’s an awkward pause, and then Anders adds, “Oh. I gave Hawke the location to that hideout we found. She’ll probably come by tomorrow and see if you want to join her in clearing them out.”

Fenris nods again.

“I should probably go?” Anders voices it as a question, a hopeful note in his tone, and Fenris finds himself saying, without any forethought whatsoever,

“Is that demon of yours opposed to wine, as well, or just that swill Corff calls ale?”

“Um…” Anders looks taken aback, and then his skin is cracking blue and Justice says, abruptly, “WINE IS ACCEPTABLE.”

Fenris takes a step back, disgust welling up inside him automatically, though he tries to school his expression. The spirit fixes his otherworldly blue stare on his face and it is difficult to read him, behind the Fade cracks, but Fenris thinks the expression on Anders’ – Justice’s? – face is hurt. Justice releases control as quickly as he took it, and then it’s Anders’ honey eyes on him.

Anders sighs, rubbing at his forehead. “Sorry. What he means to say is, he doesn’t actually hate alcohol, just us being drunk.” He pauses, like he’s listening to the voice in his head, and then he adds, wearily, no fight in his voice, “Also, usual reminder that he takes issue with that term. He’s not a demon.”

Fenris raises his brows, unsettled by this whole display. And the fact that Anders’ demon – spirit – has now addressed him directly twice in as many days.

“He seems…responsive, of late,” he ventures.

“You have that effect on him,” Anders says with a shrug.

Fenris frowns. Clearly Anders is in less control lately, but blaming Fenris himself as the cause? Or _a_ cause? The thought is unpleasant, and he does not want to think about what it may mean.

“I do not even want to know,” he mutters. He pulls out the gauntlet he removed and buckles it back on, flexing his fingers a few times when that is done. He gives Anders a long look, and then nods. Yes, apparently he is going ahead with this. 

Well, he has already proven himself a fool in his dealings with Hawke, why not in this, too?

“Come,” Fenris says, starting in the direction of the closest stairs to Hightown. “We may drink at my mansion. If you wish.” He listens intently for the sound of Anders following him, and does not realize he is holding his breath until he lets it out when Anders’ long strides catch him up.

“Pushy,” Anders complains, but he’s smiling that smile again when Fenris looks over.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An update after a reasonable delay! You're all shocked, I know.
> 
> It might be of interest that I've finally condensed my mishmash of a youtube playlist for this fic into something fit for public consumption. I now have an 8tracks mix for these three called [Triangles Are My Favorite Shape](http://8tracks.com/thecryoftheseagulls/triangles-are-my-favorite-shape), if you guys want to check it out.
> 
> One word summary for this chapter: cuddling. Enjoy!

The room Fenris has claimed for himself is dark, the fire dead. Fenris goes and squats before the hearth, feeding several new logs in above the old ashes. It takes longer for Anders’ eyes to adjust, but when they have somewhat, he touches Fenris’s shoulder. 

“May I?” he asks, and Fenris gives him a long look in the dark and inclines his head. He gets up and moves away. Anders arranges the wood again and sets it on fire with a flick of his fingers. Across the room, he can see Fenris’s markings shimmer faintly in response to his magic, and the lyrium song gets momentarily louder. Fenris has his back to him, inspecting what look to be already-empty wine bottles on a table in the corner. He picks one up, sets it down, picks up another, does the same. He gives a disgruntled click of his tongue, and Anders has to smile, watching him. 

When he turns, Fenris says, “Wait here.” It’s not a request, but it’s softer than his usual commands. His eyes flick to Anders’ face and he falters at the smile there, his expression softening uncertainly for a moment before he looks away.

“All right,” Anders agrees. He watches Fenris disappear out the door and then sinks into the second armchair in front of the fire, the one he knows isn’t Fenris’s. He thinks the fact that there is a second chair at all is mostly due to Hawke’s frequent visits.

Drumming his fingers on the arm, Anders tilts his head back and sighs. There’s a squirmy anticipation in his middle. Part of him still thinks this was a bad idea, though it’s quickly being squashed by the part that remembers Fenris’s uncertainty with fondness and the part of his brain currently occupied by a giddy Justice. The spirit is particularly in favor of kissing Fenris again, seeing what other notes their fingers can draw from the song in his skin.

Anders shakes his head against the back of the chair, trying to calm his own jangling nerves and Justice’s eagerness at once. He rubs his sweaty palms on his thighs.

“We go at his pace,” he says aloud, and Justice subsides in defeated agreement at the justness of the proclamation.

Fenris eyes him oddly as he steps back into the circle of light cast by the fire and Anders, not sure if he was overheard, gives him a sheepish smile, one he hopes will reassure. 

“I do not usually use glasses,” Fenris says, though he is carrying two crystal goblets in one hand and two wine bottles, gripped by the necks, in the other. “Hawke found these once, however. I hope they will suffice.”

“Sure,” Anders says easily, surprised by the nervousness inherent in the not-question.

Fenris holds out the two bottles to Anders once he’s set the goblets on the table between their chairs. 

“If you’re asking for my preference, Fenris, I have to admit I know shit-all about wine,” Anders says with a laugh, waving him off. “You choose.”

Fenris tilts his head and nods. He goes back to the table with the empty bottles to set one down and open the other. Anders draws his long legs up underneath him in his chair as he watches.

 _Maker’s breath. What am I doing?_ He wonders. _Am I really in Fenris’s mansion, about to drink wine with him and what, just talk? Alone?_

Justice gives the mental equivalent of a small, excited bounce and Anders is only just barely able to keep from snorting aloud.

There’s a detached expression on Fenris’s face as he approaches again, very different from the scowl he usually wears. Or, at least, usually wears around Anders. He looks almost formal in the way he holds himself and the way he carries the bottle by cradling it in his palm. He goes to Anders’ goblet first, bringing the mouth of the bottle just above the rim of the glass, and pours until the goblet is a third full before he stops. He twists the bottle as he lifts it away, and wipes the mouth dry with a cloth Anders didn’t even notice him pick up. And still, that emotionless look on his face. Anders frowns.

“Fenris.” Anders stops him with a hand on his wrist before Fenris can move away to pour for himself. Fenris tenses at the touch, but doesn’t pull away. “Did…” Anders wets his lips and tries to come up with a diplomatic way to phrase the question, one that will let him keep all his internal organs intact. “Did Danarius make you do this for him often?” He cringes and gestures at the goblets on the table and the bottle in his hands for clarity.

Fenris looks at him quickly, his dark brows raising, and it’s just surprise, shock, on his face, so Anders doesn’t know why he’s so relieved to see that attentive but distant look crack. Fenris looks down again and frowns, his fingers shifting on the bottle.

“…yes,” he says, after a moment of silence. “It was…an intimidation tactic. Danarius’s little wolf, docile as a well-trained _dog_ ,” he spits the word, “pouring wine for his guests, but always just a snap of his fingers away from violence.” His lips curve up at the edges, the near-smile cruel. “It was very effective.”

Anders hums, brushes his thumb over the pulse at the inside of Fenris’s wrist absently and takes note when Fenris goes very still. Small wonder he drinks straight from the bottle on his own, if such a simple thing reminds him of his former master so much.

“We can share the bottle,” Anders decides, plucking it from Fenris’s hand and letting him go.

“I…what?” Fenris blinks at him, his brow creasing in confusion. Anders slides out of his chair and onto the rug before the fire. He lifts the bottle to his mouth and drinks pointedly (red wine, a touch..fruity? Anders really doesn’t know enough about wine to think of any better descriptors. He likes it though), then pats the rug beside him in invitation. Fenris just stares, so Anders arches a brow, shrugs, and takes another sip. 

When he lowers the bottle again, Fenris has settled beside him gracefully, his legs to the side. 

“You are impossible,” he huffs, holding out his hand for the wine. Anders grins at him.

They are barely six inches apart, close enough Anders can feel the heat of him at his side, close enough to brush arms oh-so-easily. Anders decides he quite likes it, and Justice agrees. 

“You know,” he says, watching Fenris stare into the fire. If he’s a little distracted by the line of Fenris’s throat as he tilts his head back and swallows, he doesn’t think he can be entirely blamed for it. “You could take this off.” He flicks one of the leather spike thingies that make up Fenris’s pauldrons. “It can’t be very comfortable to wear all the time.”

Fenris raises his brows again, turning to look at him.

“You would be surprised.” He sets the bottle on the ground between them. “Danarius had it made especially for me.” He runs his fingers over the skin of his inner arm, where the armor leaves it bare to show off his markings. “It fits like a second skin.”

Anders wrinkles his nose and takes the bottle back for a drink. 

“Still prickly looking.”

Fenris chuckles. 

“Intimidation tactic,” he reiterates, but he takes off his gauntlets and sets them aside, then reaches around to unbuckle the metal chest guard.

“Useful that you can get it all on and off by yourself, I s’pose,” Anders says, watching.

“Hm.” Fenris sets the guard aside, detaches the pauldrons from the leather breastplate (and Anders didn’t even know they did that). The arms and pauldrons come off as units and then he undoes the front of the breastplate and shrugs it off, finally unbuckling his belt with its many pouches and dropping that on the pile with more care than the rest. Underneath, he’s wearing a tight, sleeveless black tunic. He rolls his neck and holds out his hand for the bottle. 

Anders hands it over without much thought, too busy admiring all the extra skin that’s now on view. The lyrium brands curl delicately over the muscles of his arms, and Fenris has biceps to rival Cosa’s or Aveline’s. It’s very impressive. 

Justice wants to kiss the line on the inside of Fenris’s elbow and see what happens.

Fenris flicks his eyes to Anders’ face at the staring and then looks away very quickly, almost-smiling and definitely, definitely blushing. 

“Well.” Anders leans back on his hands. “You’ve got me here, on your floor, and are plying me with alcohol. Are you going to have your wicked way with me?” He waggles his eyebrows and ignores the indignant murmur from Justice that says Fenris will most certainly not be doing anything so untoward to him while Anders is in any kind of inebriated state, not if Justice has any say about it.

Fenris sputters around a mouthful of wine, his fingers tightening on the bottle.

“I…you…” He gives Anders a wide-eyed look, and the way he’s shrinking in on himself and breathing heavily says he’s almost panicking again.

“Hey, hey.” Anders takes the bottle and sets it aside, his fingers brushing gently over the backs of Fenris’s knuckles. “That was a joke, Fenris. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” Fenris focuses on his face and gives an uneasy nod. “Just take deep breaths for me, okay?” He leans forward and brushes some hair out of Fenris’s eyes before he can think better of it. “Honestly, I don’t even know if I want us to do anything sexy tonight, either. I just have a penchant for bad jokes. I used to be quite the flirt, a long time ago. I’d fall into bed with practically anyone.” 

Anders bites his lip, and thinks about how he’d been as a new Warden. He had thought he was rid of the Circle for good, and he just wanted to live, then. Sex in the Circle had always been its own kind of rebellion, so of course he was going to do it with whoever he wanted – whoever he _could_ – when he was free. Justice changed that, but he doesn’t think it was just Justice. It was getting followed around by a templar just for being a mage even after Bris Amell had fought for him, when he thought for certain he was forever in the clear. It was that red sun on Karl’s forehead. Maybe it was age, too, lack of interest in casual flings when he was years older and the cause weighed heavily on both his minds.

“I’m not like that anymore,” Anders says quietly, “but old habits linger, you know?”

Fenris scoffs quietly and Anders smiles at him, folding his hands in his lap.

“Better?” he asks, and Fenris nods. Anders reaches to hand the bottle back to him. He tucks a few loose strands of hair behind his own ear and watches Fenris drink deeply.

Fenris looks down at his hands, toying with the bottle before he speaks. 

“With Hawke…” he begins, hesitant. He looks up as if judging Anders’ reaction and then looks down again. Anders waits patiently. “I had never been with anyone of my own choice before. I did not think I wanted anyone, until her. And when we…when I went to her after Hadriana, I began to remember. Just flashes, of my life before the markings. My…childhood. I had never remembered anything. Then it was gone, just as quickly. I do not even recall what I saw. I couldn’t…I ran.” He finally looks Anders in the eye to admit, “I’ve become…rather proficient at running.” His lips twist. 

“You left because you remembered something and then forgot it again?” Anders reaches for the bottle, more as an excuse to touch Fenris again than anything else. 

Fenris nods. “I believe Hawke thinks…” he sighs and leaves off the end of that sentence. “She is probably correct. I cannot give her what she wants. I…don’t know if I can go through that again.”

“Oh, Fenris…” Anders sucks in a breath. He watches Fenris meticulously pick something off his tunic and flick it away, lyrium-lined fingers smoothing the hem of the garment nervously. It is beyond strange to have Fenris confiding in _him_ , of all people, and Anders’ heart aches for him. “You know you could just talk to her, right? She wouldn’t try to force you into anything. She would understand.”

Fenris shakes his head, snatching the bottle abruptly out of his hand and taking a long drink.

“No. She knows. She…offered to do it _again_ , to help me try to find the memories again. She doesn’t realize how _upsetting_ this all is, all of it rushing in at once only to be torn away…I can’t…” he shakes his head again.

Anders frowns. Hawke lacks tact, and often, it’s true, but he knows she would try to understand. She wouldn’t be deliberately cruel. He’s torn between wanting to plead her side and, selfishly, wanting to keep Fenris back so she can’t hurt him like that again. He rubs his forehead, not sure what to do with this intensely protective urge pushing him to wrap Fenris in his arms and tell him he never, never has to do anything he doesn’t want to.

 _AND ALSO…MAYBE... KISS HIM?_ Justice suggests. Anders inwardly groans.

“It’s your decision,” he says finally. “But I have to ask…if this is not – if you don’t just want me here for a rebound fuck, or whatever – what are we doing, exactly? Because this…” he waves a hand between the two of them, the wine, the fire, “is really nice and I’m totally fine with this, but given our history, it’s a little weird, Fenris. I guess I just don’t know what you want from me.”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Fenris says.

Anders makes a face. “I suppose that’s fair.” He holds out his hand for the wine.

Fenris passes it over and regards him.

“You seemed interested,” he says slowly. “I thought…perhaps I was too inexperienced. With you it wouldn’t mean anything. Perhaps the memories would not plague me.” Anders scoffs and the sound comes out wounded. It would mean something to _him_ , or Anders wouldn't be here, although Maker only knows what it says about him that he _wants_...something...from an elf he thought despised him. Anders takes a drink to cover for it and still Fenris is just watching him with that unnervingly steady green gaze “But then, you were scared of me,” he says, more softly. “When I kissed you. And I found I didn’t want you to be.” He shrugs.

That again. “You brought me here to make me less scared of you?” Anders asks, puzzled.

“No. Yes. I…” Fenris breaks off and swears in Tevene under his breath. “Do not ask me to explain this sudden… _pull_ …towards you, mage. I cannot explain it to myself.” Fenris reaches for the wine in a gesture that is almost rough, except he pulls back at the last second and takes it out of Anders’ hand impossibly gently. Then he busies himself with drinking, his attention focused on the bottle, as Anders’ surprise turns to warmth and…something dangerously close to affection.

“Oh,” Anders says, smiling to himself. “That’s probably the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me, Fenris.” He sniffs in dramatic fashion and Fenris glares.

“Fasta vass.” He scowls. Anders gives him an innocent, sugar-sweet smile, and Fenris answers it by shoving the bottle back into his hand. “Drink, mage.”

**

“You’re very…gentle,” Fenris says hesitantly, a few hours later, when they’ve opened the next bottle, Anders has told several Warden stories, and they’ve both gossiped their way through their disapproval of Aveline’s hapless wooing techniques.

“What?” Anders tilts his head and squints up at Fenris from where he’s now sprawled out on his back.

Fenris is leaned against the nearest chair, his fingers combing through Anders’ hair, which is unbound and fanned out above his head on the rug. He pauses and then says,

“When I kissed you.” He lifts his free hand to the brands on his throat. “And when you touched my lyrium, it didn’t hurt.”

Anders rolls onto his side, frowning.

“Does it usually?”

Fenris shrugs.

“When you slept with Hawke, did your brands hurt?”

Fenris looks uncomfortable, and takes a moment to answer.

“The pleasure was more than the pain,” he says.

“Andraste’s flaming knickers, Fenris!” Anders scrambles to sit up, pushing his loose hair out of his face. Fenris makes a soft aggrieved noise when Anders moves out of his reach, and Anders doesn’t think he even realizes it. “Did you _tell_ her it hurt?” 

Fenris shakes his head.

“Fenris…” Anders closes his eyes and sucks in a breath. “These are the kinds of things you’re supposed to tell your partner.”

Fenris looks down at his hands, the fingers of his left hand dragging along the lyrium branded into the fingers of his right, and Anders and Justice have to calm themselves. Jicosa should have noticed if Fenris was in pain – she should have stopped and _asked_ him, she should have…but Fenris is very, very good at keeping things he doesn’t wish known hidden. And Cosa isn’t shy about her needs. He could see her assuming that others wouldn’t be, either.

“I’m sorry,” Anders says. “You deserve better than that, Fenris.” He reaches out a hand, stops. “It doesn’t hurt when I touch you?”

“No. I think…perhaps something about your magic. It feels different.”

Anders doesn’t let himself think too hard about that statement, because it _feels_ like an acknowledgement that Anders’ magic is somehow good, and he’s not sure he can take too many of these ‘Fenris doesn’t actually despise me and everything I stand for’ reveals in one night. 

“Is that why you don’t like to be touched?” Anders asks instead. They have all noticed the way Fenris shies away from Isabela’s wandering hands and Jicosa’s less-than-gentle friendly punches, even Varric’s casual elbowing. Eventually they all stopped trying.

“Sometimes,” Fenris admits. He takes Anders’ still outstretched hand and guides it to his knee, where it had originally been going. “Others…I’m simply surprised. I am not used to being touched. No one but Hadriana and Danarius used to dare touch me. The others…they all feared me.” Fenris watches Anders’ hand as he rubs soothing circles into Fenris’s thigh. His voice drops. “Sometimes I will...bump someone or brush hands with one of our companions unintentionally, and it’s like a shock passes through me. I find I…miss it, the contact, even though it’s something I have never had.” He shrugs, brow furrowing, and looks up to meet Anders’ gaze.

Anders’ heart breaks just a little, his hand going still.

“I am going to hug you now,” he warns, “so if you don’t want me to, you should say so.”

“You’re…” Fenris looks perplexed, but that’s all he says, so Anders scoots forward, wraps his arms unceremoniously about Fenris’s middle, and pulls him close. Fenris is stiff in his arms for a long moment, and then he just melts against Anders, dropping his head against Anders’ shoulder with a sigh.

“All right?” Anders whispers, rubbing his back.

“Yes,” Fenris murmurs.

Anders doesn’t know how long they stay like that. He keeps his arms loose enough that Fenris won’t feel trapped into this, but Fenris doesn’t pull away. Justice approves of the simple kindness and sort of…curls up in the back of his mind, lulled by the lyrium song and their proximity to it. Eventually Anders lays back down, and gets Fenris to curl up against him so he can wraps his arms around him again with only a small amount of coaxing.

“You are going to make me dependent,” Fenris grumbles, pressing his face against Anders’ neck. “This is…I’ve never…”

“Shh…” Anders murmurs, drowsy from the wine. “’s okay, you can invite me over for wine and snuggling anytime you want, Fenris.”

Fenris huffs, but he drapes an arm over Anders’ stomach and curls closer.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter this time, for Fenris's thoughts the morning after. We'll be moving back to Hawke next, since it's been a while since we heard from her, and things should pick up again now that I'm not focused on Christmas gift fics and such.

When Fenris wakes up, it is barely dawn, the first hints of grey just starting to appear at the eastern horizon out his window. He aches, a deep-seated pain at the small of his back from sleeping on a hard floor, and a dull throbbing in his temples which he can only attribute to the wine. The room has gone cold again now that the fire is out.

But Fenris doesn’t feel cold, really. Anders is still a heavy, warm weight against his back, his arm thrown over Fenris’s side, breath tickling the back of Fenris’s neck as he sleeps. Fenris registers the uncomfortableness of their position now that he’s awake, but between the pounding in his head and the press of Anders’ body against him, he finds he has little desire to move. And that…that should alarm him, how _good_ this feels, despite the discomfort. He feels…safe. 

Impossibly safe.

He has no memory of ever waking up in another’s arms like this. He had left Hawke in the middle of the night, heartsick and afraid. There had been no…snuggling, as Anders deemed it.

Fenris shifts slightly, feels the arm around his waist tighten in response. Anders makes a whuffling noise of protest and then buries his face against Fenris’s neck. Fenris smiles to himself, brushing a hand up and down Anders’ arm. He had not meant for them to fall asleep, although it should perhaps have been expected. Wine, in particular, has always made Fenris tired. It is one of the reasons he likes it, likes the sweet oblivion it provides from his endless thoughts and perpetual vigilance against those who might seek to return him to his master.

It occurs to him that Anders would not necessarily approve of his drinking habits and the reasons behind them, and the thought warms him rather than disturbs him, which is…new. When did the mage’s fussiness become endearing rather than infuriating? 

Fenris sighs. He had expected censure, after his actions the day that they had killed Alrik and those templars, had waited for the inevitable lecture from Hawke, but nothing had happened. No one had said anything at all. It seemed Anders had told no one of Fenris’s attack, and while at first Fenris had felt only relief, now he feels…baffled. And not entirely pleased. Anders has an infuriating propensity to see his life as of very little value. He talks about death, his death, as if it means nothing to him. 

_Why don’t you just stab me. That would be quicker, I expect._

_I probably have a death wish, since you’ve already tried to kill me once._

Fenris growls to himself. At his back, Anders let out a long sigh, and Fenris freezes until Anders stills again. 

That Anders would willingly seek Fenris out, uncaring whether or not Fenris might harm him, is actually worse than Fenris thinking Anders feared him. Anders, whose touch doesn’t seem to hurt, who asks before he touches. Anders, who had not been displeased with him when he mentioned the pain, but instead said Fenris…deserved…better. That same man seems utterly fine with any kind of violence or cruelty inflicted upon his person, and it bothers Fenris more than he can say.

He cannot reconcile the gentleness, the _kindness_ Anders has shown him with the violent abomination who nearly killed one of those mages he goes on and on about defending. And yet Fenris can at least see the grief and the guilt over what Anders almost did as indicative of the person he really is, when his spirit does not cloud his judgment. 

And still, he is a _mage_ , so Fenris doesn’t know why. Why now, all of a sudden, does he feel all of these surprising things for the mage? Anders gave him bedroom eyes _once_ in Hightown, and somehow from that Fenris has opened a kind of door in his head that he’s not sure he can close. Does he even want to close it? Has he felt this way all along and just ignored it, because of Hawke, because Anders is a mage?

Hawke. Thoughts of her, of what he might have had had he not run, still plague him. But it was not a lie when he said he did not want to go back to her. He can’t. When he thinks of trying again, his mind simply skitters away from the idea in something like panic. He genuinely cannot.

But now there is Anders, and Fenris is less afraid, because of who Anders _is_. And that’s not right. He should be… more afraid of the mage, the abomination, than of the woman who has been his truest friend. 

Fenris disentangles himself from Anders’ arm carefully, so he doesn’t wake him up, and scoots back. Anders curls his empty arm around his stomach and actually _whimpers_ , and Fenris stills, pained by the soft noise.

“Hush, mage,” he murmurs, reaching out to smooth Anders’ hair back from his face. Anders quiets at the touch, but still retains an unhappy expression, a little crease between his brows that Fenris wants to kiss until it goes away and Anders wakes smiling. 

Fenris wraps his arms around himself and scowls at the desire. He wants to do this. For a mage. He wants the gentle touches of Anders’ long, capable fingers to continue. He wants Anders to come back so they can talk again. He wants to lie back down and let the mage hold him more. The mage. He wants the mage.

Venhedis, what is _wrong_ with him? He feels broken open, needy, like Anders has exposed some kind of gaping hole inside him, one that is sated only by the tenderness in the mage’s hands, his eyes. It would take precious little more of Anders’ attentions before Fenris would be begging for them. He would bind himself, and everything he is, to Anders, for whatever crumbs of affection he might give. Once he had wrapped the whole of himself up in Danarius as well, had craved his touch and his approval, had given him every drop of loyalty in his bones, had slaughtered and killed for him. Has he really escaped Danarius’s clutches only to willingly pass his leash to another mage?

 _No_ , he thinks, rising and collecting his discarded armor, dressing quietly and methodically. _Never_.

He leaves the mage there on his rug and he does not look back.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke continues to be very bad at Emotions. 
> 
> This chapter is rather gorier than we've seen so far, so I've updated the tags accordingly (all pretty standard for canon, but there are mentions of blood spatters and organs being removed, etc, so fair warning).

The Chantry bells toll once to signal the hour. In this part of Hightown, not far from The Blooming Rose, the air is scented with azaleas. Hawke has noticed them blooming riotously in shades of pink and yellow in the untended remnants of this manor’s garden, and between that and the suspiciously dark façade, the place appears long abandoned. But this is the location marked as the headquarters of the Invisible Sisters on the paper Anders brought her, and Hawke knows they are in the right spot. 

She squats in the narrow stone passage between the manor they are focused on and the next while Varric fiddles with the locks on the side entrance. The moon is high in the sky, affording more light than Hawke really cares for since they are supposed to be catching the Sisters by surprise, but there are still enough shadows to suit her. She’s crouched in one, her great-axe already clutched in one hand.

“Those two are in a funny mood,” Varric observes, not appearing to concentrate very intently on the lock he is picking. 

“What? Who?” she blinks, then glances over her shoulder at the other two members of their party. Anders is flattened against the wall a few paces away, in another spot of shadow, just out of earshot of their lowered voices. Fenris is stationed at the end of the corridor, keeping watch over the main street since his eyes are sharper than anyone else’s in the dark, except perhaps Varric. Neither is looking at the other, but that’s hardly unusual. “Fenris and Anders?” Jicosa clarifies, not seeing anything that might have given Varric any wild ideas, not at all.

Varric hums his agreement, then murmurs, “Come on, now,” in a wheedling sort of tone, the tone he usually reserves for talking to Bianca. A pause, and Jicosa flicks her eyes back to Anders, who does actually look more irritable than usual, and Fenris, who just seems alert and focused as always. She shrugs to herself, making a face at the quiet clunk of her armor shifting, red steel scraping across red steel. 

“There we go!” Varric whispers triumphantly. He tucks his lockpicking tools away, and looks over at her to say, “Mark my words, Hawke, there’s something very interesting going on there.”

“And here I thought you were supposed to be the sharp-eyed one in this relationship,” Jicosa rolls her eyes.

“Are you mocking my powers of observation, Hawke?” Varric turns the knob and the door opens silently for him. He walks in backwards with a quiet, “I’m hurt, I am,” and a grin, and then he’s two paces into the safehouse they’re infiltrating and he melds with the shadows. The gleam of his teeth is the last thing Jicosa sees before he disappears.

Hawke straightens slowly to minimalize her clanking and gives a soft trill, like a common Fereldan wren. Fenris and Anders flank her quietly. She flashes the Hawke grin at them both, but neither smiles in return. Anders just waits stoically, the line of his shoulders tense under his feathered jacket, and Fenris draws his blade from the scabbard on his back and gives her a short nod to indicate his readiness. They enter together and leave Anders to take up the rear. 

The first sentry they come across has a crossbow bolt in her throat, and Varric has all the traps dismantled along the hall ahead of them. And there are a lot of traps – these Invisible Sisters are prepared, Hawke will give them that. But they’re preying on the weak in her city, and for that they’re going to die. Hawke is going to eviscerate them, and bring anybody smart enough to surrender to Aveline.

Really, she’s not sure what else the Sisters expected. She has methodically wiped out every two bit gang this city has bred up in the last three years, and even the Carta steers clear of her posse of vigilantes and bandit hunters. New gangs keep emerging, and she keeps killing them. It’s all very predictable these days. 

She and Fenris attack an unsuspecting pair of Sisters simultaneously, and they’re dead before they hit the floor, with barely a gurgle to show for it.

They catch up to Varric outside a set of double doors that look like they lead to the main hall, Jicosa’s axe already dripping blood. She nods to Varric as she and Fenris gather behind him, and Anders casts renewed barriers around the four of them before Varric opens the door.

The battle is bloody, of course, pitched inside tight quarters as it is. The Sisters are night-prowlers, so a good portion of them are gathered in this main-chamber-turned-armory, plotting nefariously or some such. They’re caught off guard by Hawke’s attack, but not for long, and they fight with the desperation of those who know, with a growing awareness of their inevitable demise, that they’ve been cornered. Hawke knows the feeling well; she felt it at Ostagar when the battle went to the Void around her and the King-Killer, that bastard Loghain, did not come, till she knew her only prayer of survival was finding Carver in that mess and fleeing like cowards. She knew it before Flemeth, with no choice but to ask for aid, and upon their arrival in Kirkwall, with two groups of untrustworthy strangers knowing her sister’s secret, and no way into the city except to pledge herself to Meeran’s greasy little smirk. Desperation is that place where Hawke thrives, where she rules; she’s owned that hard need inside her to _protect_ and _keep on_ and _not break_ since the day Bethany’s magic manifested outside a backwater Fereldan hamlet, the day Jicosa Hawke became ‘that Hawke girl,’ the one with the fierce smiles like knives, whose biting laugh could and quick tongue could sometimes keep her family as safe as the axe she could, and did, swing in defense of them.

The Invisible Sisters don’t stand a chance.

Varric is an immovable fixture at the highest point in the room, a balcony at the top of a split flight of stairs, and Anders settles somewhere behind her to set things on fire and cast spells that makes Jicosa feel like she can run for hours the moment she starts to flag. She and Fenris are twin whirlwinds of steel and silverite and death – where one swings, the other ducks, where a hole in one’s guard appears, the other fills it. Jicosa shouts out a tally of her kills to Varric, who calls out his own in challenge, and Fenris’s voice is never raised, even in the thick of it, but carries as though he is speaking directly into her ear when he needs to call out instructions. They are unstoppable, even when the sound of battle draws other Invisible Sisters out into the hall, and none of this is a surprise, not even to their enemies.

And then something is abruptly, horribly wrong. Without warning, the protective barrier around Hawke weakens to the point of ineffectiveness. She catches the twin blades of a rogue on the shaft of her axe just in time, and then lashes out with the butt of it, driving it into the woman’s nose hard enough to draw blood. Her opponent reels backwards and Hawke wheels her axe quickly so her next blow is a clean slice to the neck with her blade and the woman falls over, dead.

Something has happened to Anders, the realization of which hits Jicosa with a clarity that makes her veins run cold and her movements sharper, more focused. But she doesn’t have time to do anything about it, because her barrier vanishes completely and it doesn’t go unnoticed. Four women target her at once.

“Hawke – where is –,” Fenris pants, just behind, and Jicosa risks a glance over her shoulder to catch him contending with multiple enemies as well.

“I don’t know!” she cries, parrying the first strike against her and then bending her knees and steadying her balance. She whirls, one clean strike in a circle that drives everyone back and catches one too-slow warrior who drops and does not move again. “Varric?”

“A little busy!” Varric shouts from above. 

Fenris growls in frustration, and as Jicosa is trying to single out the most brash of the three Sisters left attacking her, an eerie blue lights up the far corner of the room. The hair on the back of her neck stands up and the air smells like ozone, like the wind before a storm. Lightning strikes three of the Invisible Sisters at once, the room filling with the scent of charred flesh, and the resulting pause as Jicosa’s opponents stare gives her the opportunity to cut the legs out from under one of them and cleanly behead another. Her last standing challenger recovers quickly and charges with a cry. Jicosa only has a moment to notice that now every unengaged enemy in the room has focused their attention on the probably-wounded mage, because she can only see a spot of blond hair above a swarm of leather-clad bodies. Anders is the most vulnerable of them all, unarmored as he is and cut off from the warriors, and they must think that if they can take him out, Hawke will lose a significant advantage. Jicosa braces herself against the furious attacks of her assailant and tries not to panic. Then Varric must finish dealing with whoever got close enough to get inside his guard, because arrows start raining down on those on the outside of the group circling Anders, and Anders laughs wildly, daring, yells,

“I’ll show you why mages are feared!” 

The relief of hearing his voice leaves her clear-headed enough to deal with her attacker and she focuses her concentration on the sweep of her axe in her hand instead of the battles her companions are facing. This Sister turns out to be a surprisingly resilient one, fighting with two daggers although the quiver on her back suggests she is more an archer than a melee fighter. 

Anders taunts his adversaries again, shouts, “Suck on a fireball!” and “You've messed with the wrong mage!” but his voice sounds shaky, lacks its usual vitriol.

Then Anders cries out in pain, a loud yell that devolves into a pitiful whine, and Jicosa jerks, the Sister managing to land a blow at the unprotected spot where pieces of her armor connect at her elbow. She barely notices, because behind her Fenris shouts.

“ _Anders_!” he screams, like the name is ripped from his throat in response to Anders’ cry. Between her own strikes and parries, she catches glimpses of Fenris’s rage. She sees his markings flare (blocks a low aimed dagger), then the two women closest to him are unnatural heaps on the floor (she whips the head of her axe at the Sister’s throat, but her opponent ducks out of the way), then Fenris is across the room so quickly he’s nothing but a blur in her peripherals. The Sister tries to circle around her, to get at her unprotected back, and Jicosa sidesteps, her teeth bared, keeping her axe between the swift-footed archer and herself. The next Jicosa sees, Fenris is in the very thick of the enemies surrounding Anders. She can’t see anything more of what’s happening but she can hear it, hear the sickening crunch of bones breaking and the wet sound of organs being ripped from flesh.

Fenris fights like a man possessed.

Two more rogues materialize from the shadows just as the archer makes a false step and Hawke slices open her carotid artery, leaving her to bleed out. When the last two are down, with considerably less effort, and Jicosa finally turns, there is no one standing in the room except the four of them, breathing hard, and there are a dozen or more bodies at Fenris’s feet.

“Maker’s breath, Fenris, and I thought Hawke was the one who got results,” Varric whistles, jogging down the steps from the upper hall to join them. Anders is pale, staring at Fenris like he doesn’t recognize him (which is not entirely unwarranted, because Fenris’s hair is no longer white and Jicosa thinks those chunks mixed in with the blood on his armor and his skin are actually bits of innards). 

Hawke picks her way over the dead bodies towards them just as Fenris fists his bloody gauntlets in the front of Anders’ coat and snarls, 

“ _Heal_ yourself, mage.”

“Fenris,” Anders says weakly, with a heavy significance that Hawke thinks either means ‘you’re bleeding all over my coat, or not bleeding exactly, but definitely dirtying’ or perhaps just ‘wow’. 

Fenris lets him go to fumble at his belt for a lyrium potion, which he nearly drops because his gauntlets are slick with gore. He presses the vial into Anders’ hand and Anders accepts it wordlessly, uncorking it. Hawke watches the long pale line of his throat as he tips his head back to drink. There’s an ugly gash down Anders’ side, through coat and shirt and skin, and Fenris doesn’t step away until Anders passes a hand bright with healing magic over the wound.

Fenris makes a noise like a grunt, and abruptly all the fight and breath whoosh out of him. He moves away, but Anders reaches out, actually touches Fenris’s fucking cheek of all things, complete heedless of the blood spattered there.

Bristling, Fenris knocks Anders’ hand away with a growl.

“Don’t touch me,” he bites out, and Anders stares after him with wide dazed eyes, two small spots of red appearing on his cheeks like he’s been slapped. Fenris stalks away, gauntlets clenched into fists, and then he falls upon the bodies and starts checking pulses and rifling through pockets.

It is, all right, a bit odd, but mostly it’s the two of them sniping at each other like always, so Jicosa still doesn’t understand what Varric is on about. She banishes the memory of Fenris’s agonized scream and steps to Anders’ side. 

“Anders? Are you hurt anywhere else?” Jicosa asks, looking him up and down.

Anders sucks in a breath and tears his eyes away from Fenris to look down at her. 

“What?” She repeats the question, then moves to pull aside his split clothing and inspect his side. “Maker, Hawke, I’m _fine_ ,” Anders says, letting out an indignant squeak when she manhandles him. “I’m the healer here, for fuck’s sake.”

“Doesn’t answer my question,” she raises both eyebrows in challenge and pokes his chest.

“Yes, yes,” Anders rolls his eyes. “That was the only potentially life-threatening wound, though…” he pauses, concentrates, and Hawke can see the light of his magic run up his arm, through his coat, and coalesce brightly at his left shoulder. “There,” he sighs when he’s done. “All better. Anybody else need healing?” He pitches that last question to carry to Fenris and Varric, who are looting the bodies, though at least Varric is openly watching them. Anders’ eyes go to the blood where her right couter meets her vambrace as soon as the question is asked.

“Cosa, is your arm bleeding?” Anders reaches for her.

“It’s not too bad,” Jicosa says, letting him fuss and hiding her wince as she holds out her arm. Anders clucks his tongue in obvious disagreement, and his magic is cool and soothing as it washes over her skin and knits her back together.

“Right as rain,” Anders says, but he’s still holding her arm with both his hands when she’s healed. His grip is loose, but his head is bent towards her, and there’s something intimate in the way they are standing. Jicosa can feel his breath over her hair, imagines she can feel the heat of his long fingers through the thick red steel of her armor. Absurdly, the whole thing makes her think of her father, his hands green with healing magic that prickled more than Anders’ does, but still soothed when he passed his hands over a skinned knee, and later over shoulders bruised from her and Carver’s sparring. It had always been the cruelest thing she could imagine, seeing Malcolm Hawke’s healing hands weak and frail on the bedcovers in the last days of his illness, when he could no longer reach for the mana inside him to heal himself, and there was nothing Bethany or any of the traditional healers could do to stop it.

“Thanks,” Hawke whispers, raising her eyes from Anders’ hands to his face to find him once again staring at Fenris, with a creased-forehead look of befuddlement. It’s a look she rather agrees with, if she’s honest, and she’s more than happy to be distracted from the weirdly maudlin turn her thoughts were taking. She steps back, drawing Anders’ gaze to her again.

“Ah, you’re welcome,” he says belatedly. He chucks her under the chin and lets her go. “Varric, how are you faring?”

Anders moves towards Varric and Hawke purses her lips. She feels unsettled, like something important has just happened, but she hasn’t the faintest idea what it is. So she shakes out her shoulders and puts the thought aside. She has better things to do than worry about inexplicable emotions. There is, after all, the business of picking over the bodies and the house for loot, and then clearing the rest of the hideout of other Invisible Sisters and traps before she reports a job well done to Aveline.

Aveline may not call the night a success as readily as Hawke does, since there aren’t any prisoners left to question or put to trial, but the city is at least a little safer, so Hawke can’t bring herself to care.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, you can find me on tumblr as [thecryoftheseagulls](http://thecryoftheseagulls.tumblr.com) :)


End file.
